


Beasts of Seasons

by simonetta



Series: Shadows Over Snow [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Dark!Jon, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is King in the North, Mutual Pining, Political Marriage, Reunion, Sansa is coming out of her cage and Jon is not doing just fine, Slow Burn, baelish is his usual gross self, bookverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonetta/pseuds/simonetta
Summary: She had prepared her words and her actions meticulously.She hadn’t prepared to actually see him.Or, Jon and Sansa reunite and things don't go according to plan, forcing Sansa to reevaluate her identity and her loyalties and forcing Jon to come back to himself.Post-ADWD, bookverse fic. Jon and Sansa reunite on campaign to win back Winterfell.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble I couldn't get out of my mind recently. 
> 
> As per usual this is bookverse because of my (thinly) disguised hatred of the show. Also as per usual, in this story the events of the books have taken several years so Sansa and Jon are adults. 
> 
> Note: (very) Minor warning for implications of sexual assault.

It was both true and false to say that Sansa had dreamed of this moment. 

She had dreamed of it, but that was only recently. In the years between the day Father’s head was chopped off and the night Petyr Baelish summoned her to his solar with a northern scheme, she had thought only once, maybe twice, about what it would be like to reunite with Jon Snow. She certainly never dreamed about it. 

On the long road from the Vale, though, his shadowy apparition had haunted her nearly every night. It had been so long she could barely remember his face. Jon’s had been the first to fade, even before baby Rickon’s. She hadn’t even noticed it. Not in the way she noticed when she began to forget how Robb’s smile looked and how Father’s laugh sounded and whether Bran’s eyes were blue or grey or some other color. It wasn’t until this shadowy figure inhabited her dreams on the snow choked King’s Road that Sansa realized she didn’t remember what her half-brother – _No, cousin now. Cousin._ – looked like. 

All she had been able to recall was dark eyes and dark hair and that everyone always muttered about how much he looked like Father – though never in the presence of her lady mother, of course. 

In her dreams she couldn’t quite get his figure right either. Had he been tall? Would he be tall now? She could barely remember the boy, so picturing the man he had become in their years apart was an impossible task. 

It wasn’t that Sansa hadn’t thought on Jon at all. Quite the opposite. Alayne had demanded ruminations on Jon in nearly every sense and naturally she wondered about him. Where he was, if he liked the Wall, how he had been elected Lord Commander, whether he found joy in that position, what he thought about the utter destruction of their family and home. He was all that was left of her family – of her childhood – so of course she had thought about him. 

But thinking was very different from dreaming and dreaming was certainly altogether different than experiencing. 

And experiencing was so very different from planning. 

Sansa had spent hours with Petyr Baelish, first in his solar back in the Vale and then in his tent along the road, planning out this exact moment. They’d been planning since the moment he’d told her Jon had been declared King in the North by virtue of her brother’s will. The planning only intensified after reports began to come that Jon was no Stark bastard, but a Targaryen one instead. 

No, this moment – the moment she and her former brother reunited after seven years and eons apart – had to be perfect. The whole plan hinged on it. 

She was to meet him in a public space where his (her) bannermen could witness the moment. She was to refuse to kneel. She was to declare herself the eldest child of Lord Eddard Stark and the eldest sibling of King Robb Stark. She was to assert that Robb’s will was invalid as it had named Jon heir under the mistaken belief he was a son of Winterfell. She was to claim that Robb’s legitimization made Jon a Targaryen, not a Stark, and that the North should never be under the thumb of another Targaryen king. 

Petyr had been meticulous in his plotting. He’d already secretly secured the loyalty of nearly half of Jon’s (her) bannermen to her cause as the rightful heir of Winterfell. He’d read her letter after letter describing Jon as unhinged and wild and unpredictable. He’d murmured about strange rumors that he was no man at all – sometimes a wolf, sometimes a wight, most often a wilding (and every northerner knew wildlings were hardly human). 

He’d fed her daily affirmations of her own standing as the rightful heir. 

He’d commissioned ten dresses of Stark grey and white for her to wear. 

Overnight Alayne had vanished and in her place Sansa Stark had risen from the grave to claim her ancestral right. 

But all that hinged on this moment. 

In her dreams, Sansa sometimes saw herself casting down the shadowy figure of her cousin. The faceless man sometimes bent the knee to her. Other times, he tried to seize her and was killed by his (her) bannermen. Most often, he just vanished much like Alayne had. 

No plans or dreams or affirmations could have prepared her for this moment, though. She realized that simple truth as she stood frozen in place by a pair of shocked, grey eyes so dark they nearly looked black in the dying light. 

They’d received word that morning that he and his forces were locked in battle. With Bolton or Baratheon loyalists, Sansa couldn’t recall. Petyr had kept her in his tent all day reminding her over and over and over again of their plan; peppering sickening kisses along her neck as he whispered of her power and her claim and her noble birth. Her throat had burned in revulsion and anticipation. 

Now it burned with barely suppressed tears. 

As soon as their camp received word the battle was won, she and Petyr and an assembly of their most loyal knights and lords of the Vale saddled and rode for the false king's encampment. 

She had prepared her words and her actions meticulously. 

She hadn’t prepared to actually see him. 

Jon was tall. Certainly, taller than he had been at fourteen. His shoulders were broad and body slim, just as a ghost of herself seemed to recall from those years before. He wore a short beard that was as dark as his shoulder length curls, which were pulled from his face in that simple, familiar northern style. 

He’d clearly come straight from the battlefield – his armor and leather and sword still on. Blood and mud were splattered across his chest and face. Despite the grime she could make out the distinct white lines of jagged scars across his brow and the haggard dark bruises beneath his eyes.

And his eyes. Oh, those were Stark eyes. Those were Father’s eyes. 

Because of course, this is what Father had looked like. She remembered now. 

In that moment, it felt as if a chain had been removed Sansa's throat. A weight was released from her chest. An invisible string that had bound her for so many years suddenly snapped and without a second thought she breached the distance between her and those beautiful Stark eyes. 

He watched her approach, face still twisted in shock, unmoving and unblinking, until she was so close she could reach out and touch his grisly chest piece. This near to him the scars along his brow were more pronounced. Unbidden, the reports of his madness danced in her ears once more. 

_A wolf, a wight, a wildling. _

_He rages. _

_He’s blood thirsty. _

_He takes no advice and trusts no one. _

_He barely sleeps and never eats. _

_He goes nowhere without that damned, hellish wolf. _

_He’s unpredictable – unstable - unyielding. _

_Worst of all, he’s the whelp of Rhaegar Targaryen. The unnatural evidence of Lyanna’s rape._

She felt Petyr’s unwelcome kisses on her throat. She kept her focus on Stark eyes.

Then, without hesitation, Sansa Stark knelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a real sucker for dark, resurrected, half-wolf Jon being tender with (and only with) Sansa.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. 
> 
> Looks like this might be a multi-chapter story after all lol

Sansa’s knees were on the ground barely long enough for her skirts to become wet with snow before large, strong hands gripped her forearms and dragged her back to her feet. 

The whisper of her name was the only warning she received before being crushed against the hard, cold planes of his chest piece. The way Jon’s arms wrapped around her figure made Sansa feel small – he was so tall now; so tall that his lips brushed the very top of her forehead as he moved to tuck her closer against him. 

Despite the blood and mud and the dig of metal into her soft skin and the strangeness of this all, Sansa couldn’t help but hold him just as tightly. She shivered and clutched at him even more when he let out a shuddering breath just by her left ear.

“Don’t kneel for me,” Jon whispered harshly against her hair, voice so much deeper and richer than the one she barely remembered; textured with a thick northern accent that sounded the way the godswood at Winterfell felt. It had been so long – so very, very long – since Sansa had heard a northern accent that strong. Her own had been lost years ago in the gilded prison of her youth. “Never kneel for me.” 

There was something else in his voice that made Sansa close her eyes involuntarily. Something fierce and deep and primal that made her fingers tighten around the leather straps of his armor. After a long moment, Jon pulled away from her only far enough to look down at her face. Sansa took in the opportunity to drink him in – the creases by his eyes, the bruise blooming on his jaw, the split on his chapped lips, the small cut on his temple that steadily dripped crimson blood, the deep winter grey of his eyes as they roamed her face. 

Distantly, she wondered what changes he catalogued on her. 

A warm, leather-gloved hand slowly rose to cup her jaw. Jon brushed his thumb across her cheek as a deep furrow appeared between his brows. Then, slowly, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss to her forehead so soft it felt like falling snow. 

As quickly as he’d surrounded her, he was gone. Three steps back and a sudden chasm had opened between them. 

“Satin – prepare a tent for Lady Stark. Give her mine if no other suitable ones are found.” 

“Yes, your Grace,” barked a dark-haired man to Jon’s right. Sansa watched his retreating form for a moment, ignoring what felt like a thousand eyes on her, before a hulking white shape caught her attention. The enormous wolf came loping towards Jon. His white fur was stained with dirt and blood and a tangle of burrs. Much like his master, Ghost had grown since last she saw him. He was huge now – his nose easily bumping her shoulder in greeting without needing to stretch at all. 

Sansa could feel the smile sweep across her face as she reached out to scratch behind the direwolf’s ears, just like Lady had loved a lifetime ago. 

Sansa only came back to her senses when the uncomfortable murmurs began to spread around her. Only then did she realize how badly she had strayed from the plan. She dragged her gaze away from Jon and Ghost. Jon’s bannerman had circled around them. Their faces a mix of shock and awe and horror. 

She easily picked out the faces that belonged to the names on Petyr’s letters. Funny how she could barely remember how her family looked, but even after all these years she remembered her father’s bannermen. 

Sansa suddenly felt ill. 

_Don’t kneel for me. Never kneel for me. _

He’d been betrayed and he didn’t even know it. 

She’d ruined everything and he didn’t even know it. 

Unbidden, her eyes flitted back up to Jon’s. He was watching her warily now in a way that looked at little too similar to the way Ghost watched her. _He’s a wolf, a wight, a wildling. _

Behind her Petyr cleared his throat. 

Sansa knew she’d have hell to pay later. They had a plan after all. Fool that she was, she’d ruined it. She’d knelt. 

“Your Grace,” she said. How strange that those were her first words to him after all these years. She couldn’t remember the last she’d spoken to him. She couldn’t remember if she’d even told him goodbye. “May I introduce Lord Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn and my most dutiful guardian these past years.” 

Jon’s shadowy eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat more before focusing somewhere over her shoulder. On Petyr. 

The hair on the back of Sansa’s neck stood on end as Petyr moved to stand beside her. She wondered if he had knelt when she called Jon’s attention to him. 

“Your Grace-”

“You protected her?” 

It was a demand more than a question. _Unpredictable – unstable – unyielding. _

“Yes,” Sansa replied before Petyr could answer. It wasn’t a lie. Not quite. 

Jon didn’t remove his hard gaze from Petyr. “Do you intend to join my forces, then?” 

Petyr shifted beside her. He hadn’t. He’d come to kill Jon. He’d come to install her on the throne – uniting the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands. He’d come to make her Queen. “Yes, your Grace. And to finally return Lady Sansa to her home.” 

Suddenly, Ghost rose from where he had seated himself beside Jon and began to circle Petyr, sniffing and watching with his cold, red eyes. Petyr paled considerably. 

Jon watched his companion for a long moment – his own eyes tracking the wolf’s movement before flickering back to Sansa’s face. His gaze didn’t leave her own as he spoke to Baelish. “Then I assume you have the supplies you need. Move your camp here. We march in three days.” 

“Ah, yes, your Grace.” 

Petyr’s hand was suddenly at her elbow. She knew better than to flinch, but Sansa was so thrown by Jon that she didn’t hide her discomfort at Baelish’s touch. Not well enough, at least. Jon’s eyes were on the spot where Petyr held her instantly. They darkened further. Ghost circled his master, curling around Jon protectively before fixing his eyes on Baelish as well. 

Petyr withdrew his hand immediately. “Come, my lady. We must gather-”

“Lady Stark,” Jon interrupted, stepping forward. “I’ll have Val escort you to her tent. You can wait there until Satin’s prepared your accommodations. I’ll see to it your belongings are brought to you.” 

Sansa didn’t have to look at Petyr to feel the anger and frustration rolling off of him. He wanted her alone, no doubt. They had to plan. They had to fix this. And, of course, she had to be scolded. She wondered if Sansa would be reminded of the debt she owed Petyr Baelish the same way Alayne had been on the few occasions she stepped out of line. 

A beautiful blonde woman stepped from the crowd, a thin smile on her weathered face, and extended an arm. 

Sansa bowed her head to Jon. She’d recognized him as her king, after all. She was bound by the courtesies so ingrained in her blood. Wrapping her fingers around the blonde woman’s – Val’s – arm, she allowed herself to be led away. 

Only once she was walking did Sansa reach up to wipe the smudged blood from her cheek. The white of her dress was stained from Jon’s embrace as well. 

As snow began to fall in the dirty, bustling camp, Sansa Stark smiled.


	3. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its cool its fun its not like i have three midterms next week and a legal memo due Monday
> 
> why do these losers and plots come into my brain at the most inconvenient times (hint: procrastination) 
> 
> (thank you for the lovely comments) 
> 
> ((sorry for three updates in less than 24 hours, when my brain finally wants to write i apparently can't stop - especially when the chapters are little glimpses like in this fic - and my ego demands the instant gratification of posting immediately))

On the first morning after she arrived in Jon’s camp, Sansa left her tent to seek out Lord Baelish. It wasn’t that she particularly _wanted_ to see him, but she knew better than to leave any loose threads unknotted. 

“What in the seven hells were you _thinking_?” Petyr hissed the moment she slipped into his tent. He crossed the space in a heartbeat and wrapped his bony hand around her arms. Distantly, she noted how different they felt than Jon’s. “How long did we plot this out, Sansa? How long did we discuss this? _Do you have any idea the lengths I went through to secure your allies_?” 

There it was. That familiar guilt. 

For all Petyr repulsed her, he had saved her from the pit of King’s Landing. He had shielded her in the Vale. He had meant to make her Queen. 

“I don’t know what came over me,” she replied earnestly. “I just… It didn’t feel right anymore.” 

Petyr’s grip tightened as he scoffed. “You stupid girl. I raised you to be smarter than this.” 

“I don’t-”

“Did he frighten you? Was that it? I suppose I couldn’t blame you – he looked quite the monster and that damned wolf of his-”

“He’s my brother. My only brother left.” 

Petyr’s eyes narrowed. His hands began to creep up her arms and it was all she could do not to twist away. “He is no brother of yours. We discussed this.” 

“They’re rumors. You saw him too. You knew Father. He looks-”

“Stupid girl,” Petyr interrupted again, hands now curling around the base of her neck loosely. “Beautiful, stupid girl.” She closed her eyes tightly as he leaned in to kiss her forehead in the same spot Jon had hours before. Revulsion curled in her. Anger boiled in her throat. “Fortunately, I have taken care of everything, as I always do.”

Fear replaced anger. Not for herself, though. No, she thought about Stark eyes and a thick northern accent and the feel of Ghost’s fur between her fingers as a wave of protectiveness rolled over her shoulders so strong that it shocked her. She didn’t know him. She’d barely known him as a girl, but this man – he was a near total stranger. And yet... 

“I don’t want to be Queen. It is enough that I’m back among my people. Thank you, for your help all these years, Lord Baelish, but truly I think our time together is done. You should return to the Vale.” 

Petyr’s smile dropped. A dangerous glint appeared in his eye. He took a step forward, invading her space. “It doesn’t work like that, sweetling, and you know that.” 

Yes, she did know that. She knew that very well. 

“I have sacrificed years of my life – multitudes of my fortune – to keep _you_ safe. I’ve hidden you at the risk of being discovered and executed, or worse, for betraying the crown. I’ve _killed_ for you, or did you forget?” 

“No, I-” 

“You think that just because some crazed bastard cousin of yours welcomes you to his camp all that debt simply vanishes?” He laughed without mirth as his hands found her hips. “No, sweetling. No, you are going to _exactly_ as I tell you. You owe me your life. That is no small debt.” 

Sansa remained silent. She trained her eyes on a spot on the floor far from the heated gaze of Petyr Baelish. The little golden cage was closing in around her again. The gilded key was turning in the ornamented lock. As if aware of her desperate effort to detach her mind from the reality of the moment, Petyr leaned so close that his perfumed breath tickled her skin. A cold hand roughly turned her chin to face him once more. 

“You will come to me this afternoon. I’ve called for our _friends_ to meet me – discreetly of course. You will assure them you seek the crown. You will assure them that their loyalty is appreciated. You will tell them this was all part of the plan. It cannot be denied the bastard is a master at war. Let him win Winterfell for you. Let him continue to show his inadequacies and savagery while you exude nothing but pure regality. Remind them all of _who_ you are and what you are owed. The crown will still be yours.”__

_ _“Yes, Lord Baelish.” _ _

_ _He dropped a wet, sloppy kiss on the corner of her moth. His grip on her chin was too tight. _ _

_ _“There’s a good girl. Don’t ruin this for me, or you’ll dearly regret it. Don’t forget how easily I can ruin you.”_ _

_ _“Yes, Lord Baelish.” _ _

_ _He let her go suddenly, causing Sansa to stumble back before catching her footing. She turned quickly for the tent’s flap. _ _

_ _***_ _

_ _She barely saw him._ _

_ _There were glimpses, here and there, but he never called her to his tent as she thought he might. _ _

_ _He never sought her out. _ _

_ _Truthfully, she saw Ghost more than she saw Jon. The great, white wolf would silently appear at random, watching her with those crimson eyes. When it happened, those around her tended to become fidgety and sneak fearful glances at the beast. Sansa never shared in their fear. Instead, she’d reach out and scratch his ear. Once she even dropped her lips to the spot just between his eyes, giggling as the wolf’s wet nose brushed her collarbone. _ _

_ _The first time she spoke to Jon after that first evening was on the day they began their march towards Winterfell. The thought should have excited her to the point of near giddiness – even if the men were predicting many more battles between them and the ancient stronghold – but it was only dread that curled in her heart. Petyr’s words echoed in her ears as she urged her horse forward through the snow. He’d never said, specifically, what would happen once Winterfell was won, but Sansa _wasn’t_ stupid. She knew what awaited Jon through Winterfell’s gates. _ _

_ _As if summoned by her thoughts, her cousin appeared suddenly with his usual retinue – the blonde woman who’d helped her clean up while they waited for her tent to be prepared, a short, burly wildling with the most tangled white beard and loudest voice she’d even known, the dark haired man – Satin he was called, and a few others that had become familiar but remained total strangers to her._ _

_ _He wasn’t seeking her out, just moving his party down the column of the baggage train, but once his eyes met her own, they didn’t stray. Ghost, who had been loping along at his side, trotted out to meet her. She dared not spare a glance at Petyr who rode directly behind her. When he was closer Jon nodded in greeting. “How are you, Lady Stark?” _ _

_ _It was odd to her herself called by her mother’s title. _ _

_ _“Well, your Grace. I am happy for the ride. Happier for the intended destination.”_ _

_ _His lips curled in a strange, feral way that almost looked like a smile. “We’ll camp for the night before too long.” Jon’s dark eyes suddenly flitted behind her and narrowed. No doubt he’d seen Petyr. “Satin will see to it the stewards set your tent near mine.” Abruptly, he kicked his heels into the sides of his black war horse and was gone. Sansa watched the rest of his party follow and swallowed disappointment at his quick departure. Jon was all the family she had left. Despite Petyr’s plotting and the distance and years between them, Sansa longed to know more about what had happened to the boy she’d known in Winterfell. _ _

_ _One rider lingered where the rest had followed the king. He was a small, wiry man with sharp eyes that looked at her as if he could see right through to her heart. _ _

_ _The stranger smiled. _ _

_ _“My lady, I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Howland Reed. Your father was a good friend of mine in our youth.” _ _

_ _Howland Reed. The man who claimed to have been at the Tower of Joy. The man who claimed witness to the truth of Jon’s birth. _ _

_ _Sansa forced a generous smile onto her face. “Lord Reed, it is good to finally meet you. I recall my father mentioning you when I was a girl. I’m glad to put a face to the name.”_ _

_ _“Strange to see you here, my lord.” Petyr’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “I had heard that you are rarely seen outside your own holdfast, yet here you are marching through the snow with the rest of us.” _ _

_ _Lord Reed pinched his lips in a strange smirk. “No stranger than seeing a man of the Fingers here. It’s been years, Baelish. The last time I saw you must have been at Catelyn and Ned’s wedding in Riverrun.” _ _

_ _Sansa’s stomach tightened. She’d learned long ago to not mention her mother around Petyr. _ _

_ _Lord Reed turned his attention back to Sansa. “My lady, should you ever need anything, I am at your service.” With one more deferential nod, he urged his horse in the same direction Jon had gone. _ _

_ _“That man is a weasel. He’s always been. Clung to your father’s skirts like a pathetic-”_ _

_ _“Watch your words, Lord Baelish,” Sansa chided. She spared a glance at Petyr who’d ridden up beside her now. “That man is the Hand of the King.” _ _

_ _Petyr eyed her carefully. “You are right, my lady. I must remember myself. Take care you remember yourself as well.” Without another word he spurred his horse forward to where a gaggle of her loyal lords rode, no doubt to spin and twist their web deeper than the snowdrifts._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing around with removing this from the same universe as _A Bridge of Ice with an Abyss on Either Side_ for certain plot points that could be explored if marriage/intimacy isn't reserved for after they arrive at Winterfell. But also, this story was always based off the way I describe Jon and Sansa's relationship in that fic and I'm a sucker for angst and mutual pining. Hmm. 
> 
> Thoughts?


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I should mention the title comes from Laura Gibson’s album _Beasts of Seasons_. If you have a moment, it’s a beautiful and short album. Funeral Song is my particular favorite and always makes me think of Jonsa. 
> 
> For reference, my fancast for adult Jon and Sansa are Miles McMillan and Alina Kovalenko. Also, if you can’t tell, I very much subscribe to the idea that Ghost is unnaturally enormous once fully grown. 
> 
> Finally, I want to thank y’all again for your sweet comments and for those who offered insightful ideas on where to take this. You the real MVPs. 
> 
> **Please don’t come for me about geography/house allegiances/etc. I’m not gonna spend time digging through AFFC and ADWD to figure out who is aligned with who, who is still alive, where the army would be marching etc. – we’re all here for the angst and sexual tension anyways.

The one constant Sansa had enjoyed over the years was embroidery. Whether she was in King’s Landing or the Eyrie or even here in the snow covered north encamped with her cousin’s army, Sansa could count on the comforting rhythm of a stitch and the familiar tug of a thread. No matter the darkness in the world, she still had the power to create something beautiful. Embroidery was something her mother and Septa Mordane had taught her. Something she and Jeyne had shared. It was loveliness in a world of full of cruelty. 

She huddled beside her small camp brazier, bundled in a dozen furs, stitching little blue birds into a stocking. The light wasn’t good enough and her fingers were nearly numb from the cold, but she’d be damned before the world took this from her as well. Lulled by the repetitive action, Sansa allowed her mind to wander. The long day of marching had been blessedly free of Petyr – who no doubt had been busy collecting or confirming alliances – but it had also been free of Jon. Unlike the day before, she hadn’t even seen him in passing. That was likely due to his role as King and commander demanding his presence at the front of the moving army whereas her sex and station placed her among the baggage train. All the same, the distance bothered her. 

It was irrational to desire closeness to Jon. She knew Petyr’s plans. She knew more than half of his bannermen were already willing to betray Jon. She knew the rumors about him and had no reason to believe he desired any particular closeness to her. They’d been distant as children. Still, he was the only other Stark in the world now. Father had always said the pack had to stick together. Targaryen blood and madness be damned, Jon was still part of the pack. 

Sansa couldn’t be the last Stark. She simply could not. 

A sudden crash and shout jolted Sansa out of her musings and caused her to prick her finger with the needle. She let out a quiet curse as a drop of blood stained the dainty little bird she’d so diligently been creating on the white stocking. Another crash filled the previously quiet night. Setting the embroidery aside, Sansa rose from her cot, plucked one of the furs to wrap around her figure like a robe, and moved to the flap of the tent. 

It was snowing again, and bitterly cold. She wondered if the north had always been this cold or if the summer of her youth in Winterfell had hidden it from her. Around her, others were emerging from their tents looking for the source of commotion. Suddenly, the flap to the King’s tent was thrown open and a tall, imposing figure dressed in his usual black stalked out. The look on Jon’s face was nothing short of murderous. A shiver ripped through Sansa that had nothing to do with the chill of the night. 

“Your Grace!” A gaggle of five or so lords poured out of the tent behind Jon, each looking equally angry and frustrated as the last. The one leading them looked to be twice Jon’s age. Sansa searched her mind to place him. Glover. He was a Glover. Not one of Baelish’s men. At least not yet. 

“Your Grace, it is simply not feasible – that is all that we are saying!” 

Jon whirled around suddenly, stopping the advancing lords in their tracks. “It is not feasible because you are cowards who’d rather sit snug and warm by the fire than test your steel on the field,” he snarled. “Go back to your keeps if you are so desperate for warmth. I have no need of cravens and wet nurses.” 

Lord Glover’s jaw tightened at the insult to his honor. He turned to the man on his left with exasperation. 

“Your Grace.” This second man’s voice sounded as if he was desperately trying to keep it level and calm. There was a high pitched, shaky quality to it that made him sound as if a rope was tightening around his throat. “Attacking an enemy in snow this deep – likely when it will be snowing still – and at night is a recipe for disaster. We still don’t even know their numbers yet. Give us time and our scouts-”

“Damn your scouts, Liddle! Where were your scouts when the Hornwoods ambushed us at Queen’s Crown?”

Liddle. That was one of Baelish’s men. 

“Your Grace-”

“Enough!” Jon erupted. The lords outside his tent jumped at the sound, then jumped again as Ghost’s hulking form exited the tent and wove through their ranks. He curled defensively around Jon as he had that first evening, mouth pulling in a silent snarl – the ferocity of which was matched only by the crazed look in Jon’s dark eyes. The sight made Sansa swallow hard and clutch the furs more tightly to her chest. This week she’d been convinced the rumors about him were largely made up; lies based on his natural broodiness and bastardy that were designed only to discredit him. Now? Now she wasn’t so sure. 

Jon stalked forward, only coming to a stop when he towered over Lord Liddle. “You can follow your commander, or you can run home like a child weeping for his mother. I took a man’s head at the Wall for insubordination. Don’t think I won’t do the same here.” As if he needed to make the threat more clear, Jon slowly and deliberately moved his hand to the ivory hilt of the sword strapped across his back.

Liddle’s hands were trembling at his sides. His eyes were so large that under any other circumstance it would have been comical. A thick tension fell over the camp where a small crowd had gathered to watch the interaction. From the corner of her eye Sansa could see Lord Reed frowning as Satin whispered something in his ear. Suddenly, his eyes met Sansa’s. There was something hard and unreadable in them. It almost looked like fear. Lord Reed broke his stare only when Jon’s heavy voice rang through the silent camp once more. “So, tell me, Lord Craven. Will you fight, will you run, or will you die?” 

Ghost flattened his ears as his silent snarl deepened. 

“Answer me, dammit,” Jon roared. He fisted Lord Liddle’s tunic in one hand and lifted until the other man was an inch off the ground. 

“F-f-fight, y-your Grace.” 

The King dropped his grip on Liddle carelessly, causing the man to fall to his knees. “And the rest of you,” Jon barked, spinning to shift his stony eyes on the gathered crowd as the other lords helped Liddle to his feet. “Will you fuckers fight beside me or run home to your mothers like Southron green boys?” 

His black cloak flapped ominously in the wind, the sound punctuating the deep silence. Jon’s dark figure was a stark contrast against the fresh, white snowdrifts. The moonlight seemed to cast an unnatural shadow on him – as if he wasn’t quite real. Fear continued to curl in Sansa’s chest at the sight. She knew – absolutely knew in that moment – the boy at Winterfell hadn’t been like this. _This_ Jon was someone entirely new. _Something_ entirely new. More beast than man. More shadow than solid. 

The burly, white bearded wilding was the first to break the silence. “Aye, King Crow – you have my axe!” 

Tormund. Val had told her that one was Tormund. One of the many wildlings Jon had let come through the Wall as Lord Commander – a move she still did not understand. 

Suddenly cries rang out through the crowd affirming that the surrounding army would, indeed, fight for their King. Sansa’s throat felt tight. They may be declaring their loyalty in the moonlight, but she knew they plotted their mutiny all the same. And after what she’d just witnessed, how could she blame them? Sansa turned her eyes back to Lord Reed. He was still watching Jon carefully and still with that odd expression on his face. She followed his gaze. Jon’s eyes were no less hard than they had been before the affirmation of his men. His bruised jaw was clenched as tightly as the fists at his sides. Ghost hadn’t taken his eyes off Lord Liddle. 

She watched as the crowed slowly dispersed. 

When Sansa turned back to her cousin, she felt as if a bolt of lightning had ripped through her. Those dark, dangerous eyes were now focused solely on her. The ferocity reflected in them made her feel numb. Gone was the man she’d held so tightly only days before. There was no trace of Father in these eyes. _A wolf, a wight, a wilding._

The spell was broken when someone grasped her harm. It made Sansa jump after the intensity of Jon’s glare, but when she turned it was only Val beside her. The other woman’s brows were deeply furrowed as her eyes drifted to Jon and then back to Sansa. “Come, my lady, it’s far too cold out here to linger.” 

Sansa allowed herself to be led back into her tent. She was embarrassed to find that she was trembling. 

Val pulled her back to the cot and piled another fur around Sansa’s shoulders. Instinctively, Sansa picked up her abandoned embroidery. 

The wildling woman suddenly seemed unsure of herself. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, eyes fixed on the tent’s flap. 

“Is – is he often like that?” Sansa whispered. 

Val turned back to Sansa. Her face was drawn in a deep frown. She sighed deeply before moving to sit next to Sansa on the cot. “No, not always.” Her voice sounded strangely resigned. Sansa didn't bother to point out the difference between _often_ and _always_. “These kneelers… they don’t… they don’t know how to talk to him.” 

Sansa swallowed thickly. “It seems to me that he doesn’t know how to talk to them.” 

The other woman cracked her knuckles. The sound filled the tent. “Jon… can be difficult.” She looked at Sansa then, grey eyes boring into her. “You must be patient with him, my lady. Your cousin isn’t the same as you may have once known him to be. That boy is in there but… he’s been through much. He won’t hurt you though. I can promise you that.” 

Sansa tightened her grip on the stocking. Until that moment she hadn’t been at all concerned about Jon hurting her. She swallowed her sudden fear and asked the question that had been burning in her mind for days. “Why won’t he talk to me, Val?” 

“My lady-”

“He’s barely looked at me. We were raised together. We are the only family left to each other.” 

“As I said,” Val murmured, eyes on the ground. “He isn’t the boy you remember.” 

That just made Sansa huff in frustration. “Yes, I am well aware of that. What nobody seems to be able to tell me – least of all the King himself – is _why_ he is so very different. This,” she gestured wildly to the tent’s flap, “is more than a boy having become a man. The Jon I knew would never-”

“He is not the Jon you knew,” Val stressed. She stood abruptly, her back to Sansa. “It is not my place to tell you more.” 

Sansa threw her embroidery to the side in frustration. “He trusts _you_, I take it. So tell me, does he not see that this behavior will only encourage disloyalty among his bannermen? It is as if he learned no lessons from Father on how to engender fidelity among your men!” 

Val turned. Her grey eyes hard as stone. “You have cause to suspect disloyalty?” 

Sansa's skin pricked with fear. Had she been that obvious? “No,” she lied. “But he must learn to listen to reason.” 

Val frowned again. She was silent for a long moment – so long that Sansa began to grow uncomfortable under the other woman’s gaze. “Have patience, Lady Stark,” the wildling woman finally whispered. “Have patience and have faith. Believe me when I tell you Jon is doing the best he can.” 

With that she was gone, leaving Sansa alone with a million more questions than she’d had only an hour before. 

* * * * * 

The next morning Satin found her by a cookfire. She’d been sitting with some of the other women, many of whom were wildlings, trying to gather what information she could about Jon when he served as Lord Commander. 

“Lady Stark, his Grace asked that I give you this.”

In his hand was an orange. It was smaller and duller than those she’d eaten in King’s Landing and the few she’d had in the Vale. But no doubt such a treat was an incredible rarity here in the north with winter setting in – and especially here in the midst of an army’s encampment. Sansa could hardly fathom how such a fruit had made its way here. 

She must have been staring at the fruit oddly because Satin quickly cleared his throat. “It’s the last one, my lady. He said something about your liking citrus fruits.”

“Y-yes,” Sansa stuttered, finally reaching out to take the gift in her gloved hand. 

“His Grace asked I convey his apologies for the language he used in your presence last night. It was not befitting a lady’s ears.” 

Sansa dragged her eyes away from the orange and up to meet Satin’s. She still vividly recalled the look on Jon’s face last night. The feral snarl of his voice. The way the shadows contorted his features in the moonlight. 

“Thank you, Satin. Please tell his Grace I’m most grateful and rather aware that a lady’s presence is not typical in such a setting.” 

* * * * *

They set up camp earlier that day as the men needed to prepare for the night raid Jon had insisted upon the evening before. Sansa watched stewards set up her tent in muted silence. The presence of their enemy’s forces over the ridge had caused an unnatural quiet to fall over the rising camp. 

She felt him before she saw him. The heavy feeling of being watched settled over her like a shadow, making her skin rise in goose pimples. Sansa turned, scanning the bustling camp for her observer. It didn’t take her long to spot him. He was mounted still, black cloak and clothing melting into the black of his horse. Sword strapped to his back. The raven she had sometimes seen following him was perched on his shoulder and Ghost, as per usual, stood as a silent sentinel at his side. When their eyes met, Jon quickly looked away. Sansa watched curiously as a warm blush colored his cheeks. When he tugged at the reins to lead his horse away it hit Sansa that he was embarrassed. He must have sent Satin with the orange and the apology to save some face after his brutish behavior. 

She worked on the riddle her cousin presented all evening. Even the muffled sound of the men preparing for battle didn’t drown out her thoughts. Try as she might, Sansa struggled to reconcile the man who had kissed her forehead and gifted her an orange and flushed in embarrassment with the volatile creature he had become the night before. She fell into a restless sleep still unable to find an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a point of clarification: I'm purposefully presenting Jon's new mannerisms piece by piece. There is suppose to be an element of mystery to it. I have the "rules" of how death has affected him all lined up - but right now that's for me to know and you and Sansa to figure out. There is also supposed to be an element of suspense and stress when it comes to Baelish's plan and how Sansa will act on that. I'm not in the habit of rushing things (except chapter updates apparently). The chapters are also short by design. I hope you enjoy the ride.
> 
> okay time for me to actually study for my midterms now brb see ya on the flipside pals


	5. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finally* getting these goofs to interact and its is just as awkward as you'd expect

Despite the concerns of Lords Glover and Liddle, the battle was a resounding success. The enemy had been routed in two hours with minimal causalities for Jon’s men. Everyone who had fought alongside the King was certain he’d returned safely. His horse was still tied next to his tent. His armor was not missing. Yet the morning after the victory, the King in the North was nowhere to be seen. 

This had first come to Sansa’s attention when Lord Cerwyn sought her out to ask if she had seen her cousin. She’d nearly laughed – for the idea that _she_ would have any idea where Jon could be was absurd. She had spoken to him twice since their reunion. And that included the reunion. Any mirth in her died upon noticing the look in Lord Cerwyn’s eye, though. The man was afraid. Of what, Sansa wasn’t certain, but she did know he was one of the lords still loyal to Jon and if he was concerned about the King then perhaps she should be as well. 

Word quickly spread through camp but Sansa noticed the reaction was mixed. A majority of the soldiers and wildlings, as well as the smallfolk who had been following the baggage train, were unconcerned. According to them, this was not an unusual occurrence. The lords who took care to dip their heads in deference to her – reminding her of their secret loyalty to their true ruler – seemed to find the situation amusing. Those she knew to be loyal to Jon, however, exchanged tight glances and dark frowns. 

By the late morning, he still was nowhere to be seen. Ghost was missing as well.

“It’s rather amazing,” Petyr chuckled. He pulled his leather gloves off finger by finger in the warmth of her tent. “I have to do virtually no work to turn his men against him. The brute is practically begging to be relieved of his crown.” 

Sansa gazed warily at the door. The guard posted without had been placed there by Jon. She knew he had been a brother of his at the Night’s Watch and if Sansa had learned anything over the last week it was that Jon’s loyalist followers were the brothers who had followed him from the Wall and the wildlings he had welcomed through Castle Black’s gate. 

“Please, Lord Baelish, keep your voice down.” 

Petyr laughed again. His bony hand reached out to rest atop hers on the small table she’d been given. “Are you afraid, sweetling? Perhaps the missing king is hiding here under the table.” With great embellishment he looked under the table – using the moment as an excuse to flip up the hem of her skirt as if to look for Jon beneath it. It took all Sansa’s willpower not to kick his smirking face. She’d always despised his attentions. Now, though, they irritated her more than ever. Her patience was wearing thin. 

Baelish’s laughter suddenly choked to a close when Ghost slipped into the tent. Both he and Sansa stared at the direwolf in stunned silence – Petyr in fear, Sansa in shock. Ghost had never sought her in her tent before. The huge canine padded over to the table, utterly ignoring Petyr, and slumped to rest his heavy head on Sansa’s lap. Instinctively, she began to scratch his ears. 

Sansa was so distracted by Ghost’s sudden appearance that she didn’t notice when the King himself entered the tent. In fact, she registered Baelish rising from his seat before clocking the imposing figure of her cousin. Once she did turn her eyes to the new arrival it was hard not to stare. Though slim, Jon seemed to make the tent feel incredibly smaller just by virtue of his presence. His eye had been blackened – likely in battle – and it only served to make the grey of his irises more pronounced. 

“He likes you.” Jon nodded towards Ghost. 

Sansa swallowed thickly, her eyes flitting over to where Petyr stood stock still. There was a look of warning in his gaze. Something about the fear she could see in it made her smile – though she easily disguised the reaction as one made in response to Ghost. Sansa turned back to Jon. “He must remember me.” 

Rather than smile in return, Jon swiftly looked away with a deep frown. It was only then that he seemed to notice Sansa was not alone. 

“Lord Baelish. I didn’t see you on the field last night.” 

“I prefer to leave the warring to my knights, your Grace. I am no use with a sword.” 

Jon made a noise that sounded like a mix between a grunt and scoff before pushing past Baelish to take the seat he’d vacated upon the King’s appearance. “I wish to speak with my cousin. Alone.” 

Petyr’s frown deepened momentarily before an artificial smile stretched across his features. “Of course, your Grace.” He turned to Sansa. It was only due to her years under his tutelage that Sansa could read the utter fury in his eyes. “My lady – we shall have to continue our conversation later.” 

Sansa nodded daintily. “Yes, my lord.” She watched his retreating form and fought to keep from grinning like a fool. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Petyr be put in his place so simply and efficiently. The near giddiness she felt evaporated, however, upon the realization she was now alone with Jon. Uncertainty flooded her mind. Where had he been all morning? Why had he told no one? Why was he now finally calling on her after more than a week of their tents resting only yards apart?

Jon seemed just as unsure. She watched as he clenched and unclenched his gloved right hand. 

“Lady Stark-”

“Sansa.” Grey eyes darted up from the table to meet her own. “Please,” Sansa continued, slowly reaching across the wood to grab his hand and stop its nervous clenching. “There is no need for such formalities between us.” 

His hand twitched as if he was fighting the urge to pull it away from her touch. Stubbornly, she refused to yield. Seven years they’d been apart. In those seven years they’d lost everyone. Sansa refused to let Jon deny her this last connection to her childhood. 

“Sansa,” he murmured. Her name in the deep tones of his voice sent a chill up her back. “Howland made it clear to me that I haven’t been particularly… welcoming. I wondered if you might join me for dinner tonight.” 

He refused to meet her eye as he spoke. Something about that made her nervous. It was hard to feel triumphant about receiving his invitation when he wouldn’t meet her eye.

“Of course, your Grace.” 

Sansa withdrew her hand, suddenly feeling very self-conscious about the way it clearly made the man in front of her uncomfortable. Jon immediately removed his hand from the table. That only made the nerves twisting in her belly worse. 

“Jon,” he muttered. “If I must call you Sansa, you must call me Jon.”

He abruptly stood and Ghost too rose to his full height again. Sansa’s hand dropped from his head as the wolf moved the side of his master. Jon nodded to her, jaw tightly clenched, and left the tent. 

Only several minutes later did Sansa recall what one disgruntled lord had told Petyr before their arrival. _He rarely sleeps and never eats._

It was time, apparently, to test that rumor. 

* * * * *

The first thing Sansa noticed upon entering Jon’s tent was the broken chair. It lay just there near the doorway, split apart and mangled as if whoever had broken it wasn’t satisfied with throwing it and had decided to kick at it as well. 

She glanced up to where Jon stood hunched over a large table in the center of the tent, his weight resting on clenched fists atop the table’s surface. That same raven was on his shoulder again. When it noticed her it began squawking for corn. Jon pushed it away roughly but didn’t look up from whatever was holding his attention. A step nearer revealed the map and battle logistics he was reviewing. Sansa noted that the King wasn’t wearing his heavy, black fur cloak and sword for once. It made him look smaller – younger. 

“Jon?” 

He seemed to flinch at her voice but turned to her all the same. Ghost raised his head from where he was lounging on the luxurious pile of furs that had to be Jon’s bed. The raven squawked again from its new perch on a large chest. 

“Sansa,” Jon breathed. He motioned towards a smaller table in the corner by a glowing brazier. 

The meal was nothing special – simple venison stew with two loafs of hearty, dark northern bread. Even so, Sansa knew it was worlds better than what many of the foot soldiers would be eating that night. She watched wordlessly as Jon poured dark wine into a cup for her, curious as to why he poured none for himself. 

An awkward silence fell as neither one of them knew quite how to begin. Sansa was reminded once more of their distance as children. Even at eleven she hadn’t had a clue how to relate to her half-brother beyond the occasional advice on charming women or forced dance lessons together. More often than not, their childhood interactions had consisted of passing glances and stilted small talk. They were never mean to one another. They simply didn't rotate in the same orbit. 

She smoothed invisible wrinkles from her skirts. That evening, Sansa had taken care in choosing her dress and enlisted the help of one of the women she’d befriended so as to pull her hair back in a braid that wound around her head like a crown. It was a style she recalled from her youth – one that had been a particular favorite of her mother’s ladies in waiting. Her gown was a creation of her own rather than one of those commissioned by Baelish. It was a pale, wintery blue. Back in the Vale she had labored over it, covering the bodice with little white and pink flowers. It was pretty and Sansa simply had wanted to wear a pretty dress rather than a political statement. She missed the days when her only concern with her clothing had been whether or not it was pretty. 

It soon became apparent Jon would not be the one to start conversation. The King pushed his stew around with his spoon sullenly. His nervousness was palpable. Not for the first time did she think that this dinner hadn’t been his idea. She finally took pity on him and cleared her throat. “Do you anticipate another battle soon?” she asked, inclining her head towards the table with the map. 

Jon looked up from the stew and shrugged. “Better to be prepared than not.” 

Another heavy silence fell. Sansa broke the bread and began to eat. It took restraint to not down the wine in once gulp. Why was this so hard? They had plenty to discuss. Seven years’ worth of information to share. She had a thousand burning questions about what he had experienced in their time a part. And surely he must be curious about where she had been all these years? How she'd come to be hidden in the Vale? Jon's apparent lack of interest in her story bothered Sansa more than she'd like to admit.

“I haven’t been ignoring you.”

The words were unexpected and gruff, and something about the way he said it made Sansa fairly certain he had been doing exactly that. She made herself smile anyways. “I did not think you were. I know you have much to do. You are a king, after all.” 

This only seemed to make Jon more uncomfortable. He released the spoon and leaned back in his chair as if suddenly needing more distance from her. “Sansa…” The low tenure of his voice made something low in her belly clench. “They came to me with his will. I didn’t seek it.” 

“Jon-”

“I know it is your right. Your crown. You’re the eldest child of Lord Stark. If you want the crown all you have to do is ask.” 

Sansa was able to do little else that stare at him in stunned silence. 

“They’d support you. I know they have no love for me. I’m not…” His brow furrowed making the jagged scars over his eye stretch strangely. “They’d be well served by you. I’m not suited to this.” 

She could practically hear Petyr’s voice in her ear telling her to accept his offer; to demand they leave the tent that instant and make it known that he would kneel to her; insist he proclaim her Queen of the North that very night. All that plotting and planning and scheming and Jon was willing to simply hand her the crown. It was almost enough to make her laugh. But Sansa was tired of the cage Petyr had built around her. She was so very, very tired of his kisses and caresses and threats and the way he spoke as if there was no chance she’d ever amount to anything without his hand guiding the way. 

Her hand tightened around her wooden spoon as she made her decision. “You are the king. They chose you. Robb chose you, and so did I when I knelt.” Her voice was steady and strong and she took care to look Jon in the eye as she spoke, letting the honesty in her words spill from her gaze as much as her voice. 

Rather than relief, she saw only doubt in Jon’s eyes. Somehow that was so much worse than the thunderous rage she’d seen there two nights before. The urge to comfort him suddenly overwhelmed her. She had no idea how exactly to do that, so instead she ate another spoonful of stew and did her best to ignore the fact he hadn’t touched the food before him. 

A sudden memory hit her. The innocence of it made her smile. “Do you remember that time Robb spilled stew all over himself because he was flustered by Lord Ryswell’s niece asking him to dance? His face was so red that you said it matched his hair.” 

She’d expected the story to finally draw a smile out of Jon. The two sure things they had in common were a love for Robb and their shared childhood in Winterfell. What she did not expect was for his face to pale considerably. 

“I... I don’t.” 

A sudden fear gripped Sansa. Had Jon not been at that feast? Had it been Theon who made the comment about Robb’s face? Had that been one of the times Mother made him sit in the back of the hall with the squires and pages? Had she just reminded him of his inferiority as a child? 

“Oh – I could have sworn you were there. I must be mistaken, I didn’t-”

“I’m sure I was there. I just don’t remember it. I’m sorry.” 

“That’s – you don’t need to apologize. It’s been years.” 

Jon nodded but his eyes were glued on the food in front of him. Ghost rose from the furs and came to lay beside Jon. He rested his head in Jon’s lap just as he’d done with her earlier that day. Sansa watched Jon’s hand stroke the white fur on Ghost’s head. It was the first time she’d seen him without his black moleskin gloves, which must have been why the substantial burns on his skin came as a shock. The image made her think of the Hound for the first time in years. He’d scared her as a girl but looking back, Sandor Clegane was little more than a frightened, desperate man. Sansa pursed her lips and let her eyes wander back to Jon’s furrowed brow; to the dark bruises beneath his eyes; to the invisible weight that seemed to rest on him. 

The dinner passed in silence after that, interrupted only by a small comment here or there about simple, safe topics like the weather or the food or Ghost. 

By the time Sansa bid Jon goodnight, she felt like she knew even less about him than she had earlier that day. Curiously, though, she felt a growing desire to protect this near stranger. 

That night, as she willed herself to let sleep take over, one thought refused to leave her troubled mind: Jon hadn’t so much as touched his food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this didn't feel like filler - four important hints were dropped that are gonna come back into play later 
> 
> i'm real excited about the next chapter (it features the set up for one of fanfic's greatest tropes) so watch this space


	6. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i lied most famous trope of fanfiction comes next chapter (hint: it rhymes with red herring)

There was a part of Sansa that though Val was trying to tell her something. But then again, there was also a part of Sansa that thought Val was trying to hide something. The pointed looks and cryptic words and convenient appearances when Jon lost his temper with one lord or the other all pointed to _something_. Sansa just couldn’t work out what that _something_ was or was not. 

The wildling woman certainly seemed very determined to become Sansa’s friend, which wasn’t necessarily something she was opposed to. Afterall, she missed Myranda and Mya dearly and having a companion in camp would provide her with more excuses to avoid Petyr. Plus, there was the benefit of Val clearly being well acquainted with Jon. Not that she was jealous about that, because she wasn’t. It helped though, to speak with Val. The woman had told her bits and pieces about her time at Castle Black and about Jon as Lord Commander. Since she was getting nowhere with Jon, that information was most welcome. Sansa wanted to know the man the Jon she’s known had become. 

They hadn’t been close before. She didn’t want it to be like that again. They were all that were left of those summer days at Winterfell. 

A few days after Sansa’s dinner with the King in the North, Val pulled her out of her tent and insisted on enjoying the first sunny day in a while. Petyr, whom Sansa still had not told about Jon’s offer of the crown, had asked to meet with her that day as well. After only a slight hesitation, Sansa elected to take Val’s extended arm and let the older woman lead her through the tents. Petyr could wait. It was still a long march between them and Winterfell. There was still time for her to work out what to do about him. 

The truth that she’d unequivocally arrived at the morning after her dinner with Jon was that she could not let him be killed. Sansa owed her father’s memory more that than that. She owed Robb’s memory more than that. 

More than anything, she owed the memory of a sullen boy with dark hair and dark eyes more than that. 

So, when Val extended her arm, Sansa took it. 

She heard the sounds of the fight before she could see it: the clash of metal on metal, the grunt of men, the hiss of the crowd, the protests of the muddy earth. Val saw Sansa craning her neck to see what was happening and laughed lightly. 

“You enjoy watching them fight?” 

Sansa blushed. “It’s hard not to look when you hear such sounds. They’re sparring?”

Val nodded, a small smile on her lips. 

“I watched my brothers spar when I was a girl, but never in a camp like this. And never men. I suppose it is like a tourney, though.” She bit her lip, remembering her last tourney in the Vale. That had been the last time she’d seen Harry before Petyr pulled her into his solar and flipped her world upside down yet again. 

“You kneelers are so strange.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Mance told us about your _tourneys_. How knights train just to win them. How that makes them heroes. It’s foolishness. The only way a man can win honor is on the battlefield.” 

A collective groan sounded in the circle of men off the left and the sounds of the fight abruptly ended. Val must have caught her looking again because the wildling woman laughed and started tugging her towards the crowd. “Come, little kneeler. Let’s watch real men fight. None of your silly tourney nonsense.” 

The crowed parted for them easily. The presence of Val didn’t seem to surprise the gathered men, but their eyes widened upon seeing Sansa. There were a pair of armored men in the center, hacking at each other with blunted swords. At least she thought they were blunted until one of the men swung low and knocked his opponent’s shield. The sword cut deep into the wood. 

“They’re using live steel?” Sansa gasped. 

Val gave her a strange look. “Of course. What else would they use? Sticks?” 

The fight continued for a while longer until the man whose shield had been cut managed to swipe the legs out from beneath his foe and ended the mock battle with a sword pointed at the fallen man’s throat. 

“I yield!” The man on the ground barked. His former opponent helped him up as the crowd started pushing another man forward to meet the victor. He was a young lordling by the look of his armor. 

The fallen man began to walk back towards the tents, ignoring the ruckus, before seemingly noticing Sansa and Val and quickly changing direction towards them. Val groaned quietly. 

“Lord Dormund,” she muttered in Sansa’s ear. “He’s been telling everyone he’s going to marry you.”

Sansa’s eyes flew to Val’s face. “I know the name but not the man.”

The wildling woman smirked. “Well, my friend, meet your future husband.” 

When Lord Dormund reach the women, he removed his helm and revealed a comely face and dark blond hair. He was the kind of man that Sansa would have instantly fallen in love with once. But now, she saw the air of self-importance to him; the arrogance in how he held himself; the pride in his demeanor. She thought of Joffrey.

“Ladies,” Lord Dormund bowed. “What did you think of the fight.” 

“You lost,” Val replied with a smirk. “And I’m not surprised you lost.” 

Lord Dormund utterly ignored her. “Lady Stark?” he asked, deep brown eyes on Sansa. 

She smiled prettily. “You fought bravely. I’m glad my cousin has men like you fighting for him.” Sansa could not remember if he was or was not one of Littlefinger’s men. The lack of knowledge was driving her mad. Either way, she knew it smarter to flatter a man like him than to insult him. Joffrey taught her that. So did Harry. 

Val let out a bark of laughter. “Indeed. What would Jon do without your bravery?” Her tone was playfully mocking, but Lord Dormund just continued grinning at Sansa. 

“Does the king ever spar?” Sansa asked Val. She’d purposefully turned away from Lord Dormund’s gaze. His attentions made her uncomfortable. Men’s affection had ceased to be something thrilling or exciting for her. Like so many other vestiges of her youth, the south had beaten that girlish fancy out of her heart. 

“Occasionally. Usually just with Tormund though.”

Sansa frowned. “Shouldn’t he be training with his lords? Father always-”

“Your cousin is a force of nature,” Lord Dormund laughed, cutting Sansa off. “He trains with Tormund Giantsbane because nobody else dares go up against him, even in a friendly match. The man is a beast with a sword.”

Sansa didn’t miss the glare Val shot his way. “These kneelers are cowards, Lady Stark. They are afraid to fight their king because they don’t want their pride wounded.”

“Or because they don’t want their body wounded.” Lord Dormund was smiling, but something dark in his voice and hard in his eyes spoke of the truth. “His Grace is indomitable on the field. At times, it seems, he forgets he is not on the field. I’m not surprised you defend him though, my lady,” his smile was fixed on Val now. “Considering what I have heard about where you spend your nights.”

Val blushed furiously. “You must have hurt your head when you fell, Dormund.” Her eyes were cold as steel. 

Something deep and dark and sickening roiled in Sansa’s gut. She’d suspected something _more_ existed between Jon and the wildling. The woman was beautiful, men whispered that she was a princess, and clearly she and Jon were close. They’d known each other at the Wall, after all. Val had told Sansa that Jon had been kind to her there when others weren’t. Respected her when others didn’t. 

She’d also seen Val leaving and entering the King’s tent far too often for it to not be noticeable. 

All same same, the confirmation came as a shock. 

Val’s face was still red with embarrassment when she turned back to Sansa. “Come, my lady, let’s not linger with this rumormonger any longer. Go lick your wounds, Dormund.” 

“You sure you don’t want to help me with that? It seems you are readily willing to soothe broken men.”

"You'd be smart to watch your words when discussing your king," Val spit out. She grabbed Sansa’s arm and began to pull her away from the smirking lord. “Don’t listen to him,” she hissed. “He’s full of shit.”

Sansa nodded and forced herself to smile. “I’ve met many men like Lord Dormund. I know a pompous ass when I see one.”

Val laughed and pulled Sansa closer. “Ah, I like you kneeler. Come, let’s forget about your pompous ass.” 

Sansa let herself be led away from the sparring men, still smiling prettily and curling her hand around her friend’s arm. But inside, her mind churned with this new information. Despite Val’s insistence against Lord Dormund’s implication, the image of Jon and Val together in that pile of furs in his tent was utterly stuck in her mind. 

The image made her sick.

*** 

It took her an hour to work up her nerve. She paced her tent, and tended to her horse, and braided then unbraided then rebraided her hair all while worrying her lip as she had as a girl. 

Mother always used to chide her for that. 

Sansa sighed. It was now or never. The worst he could say was no. 

Steeling herself, Sansa stood and left her tent. She strode across the small clearing, weaving between men, and came to a stop in front of Jon’s tent. Satin was seated outside eating a small, withered apple. The guard at the door seemed familiar as well. Another brother of the Night’s Watch, Sansa thought. 

“Is the King in?”

Satin nodded. “Yes, but he’s in a right mood, my lady.” 

Well, that was hardly news. “I’d like to speak with him.” 

Satin finished his apple and tossed it in the mud and snowmelt. “Might be better later, my lady. He just got done meeting with his principal lords.”

“I’d like to speak with him now.” She’d spent all morning working up her courage after all. Besides, an angry Jon was hardly a rare sight these days. He always seemed to be angry about something when she saw him around camp. Always barking orders or glowering or disappearing for hours on end. 

Just because she’d decided to prevent Petyr’s assassination plans didn’t mean she didn’t understand _why_ so many northern lords were happy to flip their loyalties. 

“Please,” Sansa added, smiling sweetly at the dark-haired man. 

Satin’s eyes softened a bit. He’d become fond of her, Sansa could tell. Satin had been the one to show her where he horse was kept, and to teach her how to brush out the mare’s long mane and coat. He nodded at her, finally, and slipped into the tent. A moment later he reemerged. 

“You can go in, Lady Stark.”

Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Satin.” 

Jon was hunched over his war table again. Longclaw, as she’d come to learn his blade was called, was laid on a corner of the table. He turned when she stepped inside. The bruises under his eyes seemed more pronounced in light from his brazier. Sansa forced herself not to let her eyes wander to his bed. She willed images of Val writhing against those furs, atop that table, in that chair, out of her mind.

“Sansa, what do you need?” 

“I was wondering if you’d like to go on a ride with me." 

Jon frowned and looked away. 

" It would just through the woods to the west of camp. It needn’t be long," Sansa added. Suddenly, she was desperate for him to agree to her proposition. Sansa stepped closer to him until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Please,” she whispered. “I’ve been here nearly two weeks now and I feel I have barely come to know you.”

His eyes found her again. She could easily read the hesitation in them. 

“Please,” Sansa said again, her voice quiet and pleading. “I want to know you.” 

_I hate that Val knows you better than I do. I hate that I can’t read the expression on your face. I hate that you are always so angry. Please, please, please, let me know you._

After a long moment, Jon nodded. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this one feels short and i'm sorry. i promise the next chapter will make up for it tenfold. i mean you're gonna get more awkward interactions, this time on horseback, AND the red herring. all with a now jealous Sansa in the mix ;)
> 
> thank you again for your love!!!


	7. vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'm sorry I lied again, the led caring happens next chapter. Sorry - I start writing and then certain scenes end up longer than I expected and I'm trying to stick to a certain length for the chapters in this fic. 
> 
> Also, I just want to warn people that some minor references to sexual assault come up in this chapter. Nothing graphic, but implications of past incidents.

It was a little awkward, Sansa could admit, as they waited for Satin to bring them their horses. She stood next to Jon outside his tent, vigorously scouring her mind for _something, anything_ to talk about. The camp bustled around them, but every now and then a soldier or lord or camp follower would turn and gaze at the sight they must have made – Jon in his heavy black cloak, fully armed as per usual, and Sansa in her light grey dress and soft white cloak, Ghost nuzzling her shoulder like a severely overgrown dog. 

“Corn!” Jon’s raven screeched, coming to rest on his shoulder. “Corn! Corn!” She watched with a small smile as he pushed the bird off only to have it land again a moment later. 

“Who taught him to talk?”

Jon frowned at her. “I have no idea. Mormont, I suppose.”

“The Lord Commander before you?”

He nodded. “Aye. The damned bird was his.” Suddenly, Jon’s face reddened. “Uh, excuse me, my lady. I didn’t mean to curse.” 

Sansa felt her smile widen. Then, she surprised herself by bumping his arm lightly with her shoulder. “I’m not so delicate as to be a stranger to curses, you know.”

Jon’s brows knit together, but before he could respond Satin had returned with the horses. The sight of them made Sansa giggle. It was strange really, how all of a sudden, she felt almost giddy. Jon looked over at her as he moved towards his steed. “Does something amuse you?”

“The horses. They match us,” she told him with a smile. Sure enough, her mare was dappled white and grey while his larger destrier was midnight black. When Jon’s looked away again without so much as a smile, Sansa felt her stomach tighten with nerves. She felt silly, then, and so much like the stupid girl she’d been before King’s Landing. Frowning, she let Satin help her mount the mare. Before she was fully on the horse, Jon was already leading his towards the woods west of camp. Sansa kicked her heels and followed, hoping he didn’t think her as insipid as she was sure he saw in their youth. The thought made her frustrated more than anything. She’d simply been trying to make him smile. The least he could do was pretend to have any interest in her companionship. Sansa remembered the lessons she’d given Jon and Robb in how to treat a lady back when they were children. Clearly, Jon recalled none of it. 

They rode in silence for a while, Jon slightly ahead, as the tents began to thin and give way to heavy snow drifts and then quiet, snowy trees. The twist of branches and roots made Jon’s horse slow, allowing Sansa’s mare to close the distance and put her shoulder to shoulder with the solemn king. Ghost padded silently ahead of them, occasionally lifting his nose to sniff at the air. Once, the great wolf was so focused on a scent he bumped into a tree. Beside her, Jon recoiled at the contact though it had been him, not the wolf, who hit the tree. His obvious affection for the animal would have made her smile, but her frustration with him overpowered the impulse. The raven flew out ahead of them as well, gliding above Ghost as it wove between branches.

“Was the raven a gift to you from Lord Commander Mormont, like your sword?”

Her question seemed to startle Jon in the quiet of the woods. He glanced over at her briefly, but his expression was hard to read. “No, not really. I was Mormont’s steward, so I suppose the bird just knew me.” Sansa nodded and they fell into silence again, but Jon broke it only a moment later. “How did you know Longclaw was a gift from Mormont?” 

She shrugged, ducking under a low hanging branch. “People talk. We’ve seen so little of each other, so I turned to others to know more about you.”

The look Jon threw her looked almost guilty. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I’ve been… busy.”

Sansa smiled a little bitterly. “Well, you are the king.” They fell into silence again as it began to snow. When they reached a small creek Ghost suddenly took off in a run, spooking Sansa’s horse. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Jon had leaned over and taken hold of her reins, pulling the startled mare to heel. Once her heartbeat slowed, Sansa felt her face redden at the realization she was gripping Jon’s outstretched arm tightly. She released it with a small apology. 

“Don’t apologize,” he huffed out, irritation painted across his features. “It’s Ghost who spooked your horse.”

“Is everything alright? Why did he run off?”

She watched as Jon clenched his jaw and looked away from her. “Probably caught scent of a deer. He’s hungry.” Something about the way Jon spoke made a cold chill run-down Sansa’s back. The thought sounded ridiculous, even in her mind, but it was almost as if Jon was talking of himself, not Ghost. 

“Why did you come here, Sansa?”

Jon’s question caught her off guard. “What do you mean?”

He turned back to her. It was hard not to notice was a vision he made – his dark, striking features against the backdrop of snow and trees. Jon looked like one of the old Kings of Winter from Old Nan’s stories. He looked like winter itself. “You were gone for seven years. You said Baelish guarded you in the Vale. Why did you come north now and not before?”

Sansa frowned. “Well, I couldn’t before.”

“Why not? Stannis would have given you Winterfell. The northern lords would have rallied-” 

“The northern lords had aligned themselves with the Boltons as far as I knew. Stannis may have given me Winterfell, but Lord Baelish promised that if I had patience, he would do the same. I knew Baelish, not Stannis. And I was only a girl. To leave on my own would have been exceedingly dangerous, and Baelish insisted we wait.”

Jon’s face was as solemn as ever as he looked out over the little stream. “Had I known, Sansa, I would have come for you.”

“And broken your vows? Don’t be ridiculous.”

He scoffed resentfully, then fixed her with a hard look. “Did I not break my vows anyways?”

“Yes, but that was because Robb’s will-”

“I broke them long before that,” Jon cut in, bitterly. He kicked his heels and was off again, Sansa struggling to make her mare keep pace with his destrier. She tried to make sense of what he’d meant but couldn’t. She didn’t have enough information. 

“What did you mean,” Sansa nearly shouted. Jon slowed his horse only just enough to allow her to catch up with him. 

“What do you mean?”

“When you said you’d already broken your vows. What did you mean by that?”

Jon looked away again. “Nothing.”

“Jon.”

“It was nothing, Sansa. Forget I even-”

“Why won’t you share anything with me,” she asked, voice high and angry and finally breaking in frustration. “We are all that are left to each other, Jon! I know we were not close as children, but Gods, can we not trust each other now? Can we not know each other now? I have been in your camp for near a fortnight and can count the amount of times we have spoken on one hand. And even then, our words have been pleasantries and every syllable has been forced from your lips! Do you hate me so much that you cannot stand to speak to me? I know as I girl I was not-”

“I don’t hate you, Sansa,” Jon interrupted. His voice was the oddest mixture of affection and frustration, but now that the dam had broken on Sansa’s irritation, she gave him no pause. 

“Then _talk_ to me! We may not be siblings, but we are something more than strangers.” 

Jon looked at her for a long moment before nodding and slipping off his horse gracefully. Once on the ground he extended a hand up to Sansa. 

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help you off your horse.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment before taking his hand. As she slipped from the saddle, his other hand gripped her waist to steady her. The contact made something in her belly flutter. Sansa watched silently as Jon tied up the horses. When he began to walk towards the stream, she followed. He stopped at the snowy bank. 

“I don’t hate you. I never hated you,” Jon told her. His voice was quiet and weary. “I just… I don’t know how to be around you. It feels as if… It feels as if you are something from another life. Someone that another version of myself knew. I don’t know what you expect from me, and I don’t know what you want from me. And I’m not… I shouldn’t be King. I shouldn’t be here at all. I don’t want to be around you because I’m afraid of what you’ll see in me. It isn’t about you at all, Sansa. It’s me. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed when you find who I am now. What I am now.”

It was more words put together than she’d heard him speak since her arrival. The brutal honesty in his tone made her eyes burn with the sudden urge to cry. “I could never be disappointed. How could I? I’ve spent seven years alone in the world. The fact you are _here_ is enough.” Unbidden, a tear slipped down her cheek. Sansa brushed at it, hoping Jon hadn’t seen. 

“I’m not your brother, Sansa. I’m not a Stark.”

“You are part of the pack. Father always said the lone wolf dies and I’m tired of being alone.”

He was silent then, eyes focused on the woods before them. “You don’t know me,” Jon finally said. His voice was little more than a whisper and full of such bitterness and loathing that it made her recoil a bit. 

“Maybe not, but I want to.”

“And if I don’t want you to?”

Sansa looked over at him, taking in the now familiar bruises beneath his eyes, the crease in his forehead, the heavy, white scar over his eye. His beard had grown slightly longer and more tangled since they’d reunited. She had the sudden, strange urge to run her finger along it. Instead, she smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her dress and forced a smile onto her face. If he wouldn’t let her know him that was his choice. But in that moment, she decided she wouldn’t let him return to camp without knowing _her_. 

“They beat me in King’s Landing you know.” Sansa’s words had the desired effect. Instantly, Jon’s eyes were on her – wide and dark and awash with shock and anger. “Every time Robb won a victory I paid the price. Joffrey had no capacity for compassion or mercy. It was the Hound and the Imp of all people who showed me kindness in that awful place.”

Jon took a step towards her. His face was murderous suddenly, and she knew that if she wasn’t aware his anger was not directed at her, she’d fear for her life. “Sansa-”

“I was so happy the day they ended my betrothal to Joffrey. He was cruel. I was a fool for ever having loved him – though I did in my stupid, girlish way. I was there, you know, when they cut off Father’s head. They’d made me come to beg for his mercy, and he was supposed to have been given mercy – he was supposed to have joined you at the Wall. But Joffrey chose otherwise, and I had to watch as they killed him. That wasn’t enough, though. The gallant prince made me walk the ramparts and view my father’s rotting head. Septa Mordane’s rotting head. They took Jeyne from me. To this day I don’t know where she is or if she is alive. Arya went missing the day they imprisoned father. I don’t know if she is alive either. I was happy when the betrothal ended, but then one morning they bathed and dressed me and told me I was marrying Tyrion Lannister. If I refused, I had no doubt my punishment would be rather painful. So, I did it. I was _twelve_ and trying just to survive. The Imp didn’t seem to have many objections, though at least at twelve I was spared being bedded – but even then, it was only because I refused, and Tyrion was either kind or a coward. I’m still not sure which. Perhaps it was his guilt over having wed me. I'm sure you can imagine how it felt to be a girl imprisoned and married into the family that so utterly destroyed your own.”

Jon reached for her, but Sansa brushed his hand away and turned from him. She was angry with him, she realized. Angry that he hadn’t asked her immediately what had happened in their years apart. Angry he’d never sought her out to ask. Her anger boiled over then – yes, she was _angry_ Robb hadn’t come for her in King’s Landing, _angry_ Arya had disappeared and left her all alone, _angry_ Father hadn’t played the game smarter, _angry_ she’d let Petyr control her for so long, _angry_ at the things she’d done to please him and to build his dominance because now she finally saw with such a clarity that it had never been her own power he aimed to advance. 

Suddenly, she didn’t want to tell Jon any more. She didn’t want him to know about the Vale and all that had happened there. She didn’t want him to know about Harry and Petyr. She didn’t want him to know about the things she’d done just to survive it all. Her rage consumed her. 

“You may not be the boy you were, but I am not the girl I was,” Sansa bit out. “But that does not mean we cannot trust each other.” She turned back to him, her gaze hard and angry. “Do not presume to know how I would react to your being honest with me. I am not a simpering fool any longer.”

“You never were one.” Jon’s eyes were still hard, but his tone strangely soft. His gaze was so intense on her that Sansa had to look away after a moment. 

“I want to go back to camp.”

She saw Jon nod out of the corner of her eye. “You’re angry with me.” It wasn’t a question. 

Sansa scoffed. “I am angry with the world, I think.” She turned to go back to the horses, but Jon caught her arm, tugging her back towards him. 

“Baelish. Has he hurt you? Has anyone in this camp treated you the way you were treated in King’s Landing?”

“No.” It wasn’t a lie. The way Petyr had treated her was _different_ than the Lannisters, though deep in her heart she knew it was no less cruel. Perhaps, even, it was crueler. 

Jon looked at her for a long moment – so long that Sansa suspected he could see through her almost lie. His brows were drawn tight in anger, and his grip on her arm was not gentle. Though still, Sansa somehow knew that fury was not directed at her. She found herself suddenly wondering what he would do if she were to tell him that yes, Petyr had hurt her. He’d manipulated her emotions for years, he’d denied her her own identity, he’d kissed her and touched her and taken liberties with her that made her skin crawl and that had left no bath seeming hot enough to scourge his words and lips from her skin. He’d killed Lysa and Sweetrobin and encouraged her to treat with Harry in ways that would make her Septa Mordane roll in her grave. 

The barely contained rage in Jon’s eyes made Sansa think she might know what he’d do. 

But then again, this Jon was a stranger. 

Sansa tugged out of Jon’s grasp and continued her walk towards the horses. A moment later, she heard Jon following behind her, his heavy footsteps crunching the icy top layer of snow. When he helped her back into the saddle, Sansa did her best to ignore the warmth that spread from his hands on her waist. They rode back in silence. Then, just as the break in the trees was in sight, Jon spoke. 

“I broke my vows twice. The first time was when I laid with a wildling girl-”

“Val?” Sansa all but spit out. 

Jon turned to her with furrowed brows. “No. Ygritte. She’s dead now.” 

“And the second time?”

“I intended to march to Winterfell with the Free Folk and any brothers who would follow. I intended to retake the castle, kill the Boltons, and save who I believed to be Arya, but now know was some poor girl they pretended was your sister.”

“Intended?”

“Aye, I never made it out of Castle Black.” Then, with a kick, Jon was gone, speeding ahead of her back into camp, leaving Sansa at the edge of the trees once more burning with a million unspoken questions. She hated how every time she learned something more about the enigma that was her half-brother turned cousin, it only made her less sure about the man he’d become.

The whole day, Sansa's fury simmered. She tried to ease out of it with the peace of embroidery and with visting with the women in camp. Sansa even spent a long hour brushing her mare's coat, willing the storm within herself to calm. By the evening, she knew the anger boiling in her wasn't really about Jon. Well, not fully. She was angry at his distance, but her anger was so much larger than that. It was seven years of being used and manipulated and viewed as small and delicate. Sansa was a Stark of Winterfell, and she was tired of being seen as anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is already pretty much done so the wait shouldn't be long.


	8. viii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one day can only mean one thing: I have an assignment due tomorrow (ugh). 
> 
> Ah, here it is. The shed tearing.

The day after her ride with Jon, Satin appeared beside her in the baggage train as the army marched forward. 

“His Grace asked that I invite you to ride with him at the front of the train,” the young man told her, a pretty smile on his lips. 

Sansa looked at him dumbly for a moment. “You mean in front of the army?” 

Satin nodded. 

“But the women and children always ride in the baggage train.”

The man shrugged, his smile growing. He had the kind of smile that was infectious Sansa decided. It made his already rather attractive face seem to glow with warmth. “The King’s party rides at the front; I suppose he’s inviting you to join it.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. If that was the case, it was quite a statement to make. “I hardly imagine that I’m being asked to join his advisors.”

“Begging you pardon, my lady, but the King has chosen rather unconventional advisors before.” At that, Sansa couldn’t help but smile. He had indeed – wildlings and black brothers and women. It was not the typical entourage of a king. “Besides,” Satin added. “You are his sister.”

“Cousin.”

The man shrugged again. “If you’d like, I’ll escort you up, my lady.”

Sansa nodded and moved her horse to follow Satin’s at a gallop. They passed wagons of supplies and foot soldiers and cavalry and lords before finally reaching the head of the army a good while later. To Sansa’s delight, Jon lips pursed into a small smile when he saw her. 

“Lady Stark,” Howland Reed grinned. “I’m glad you have decided to join us. We have a long march, and I’ve heard you make fine company.” 

Sansa pulled her eyes away from Jon, wondering what this all meant, and grinned brightly at her father’s old friend. “You’ll have to tell me who told you this, my lord, for they are a great liar.”

Satin laughed. “You shouldn’t call your king a liar, my lady.”

Sansa’s eyes shot over to Jon, who was suddenly very focused on the path ahead. She felt warmth spread from her toes to her ears, however, at the fact that small, strange smile was still on his lips. 

***

That night, Sansa was woken from her dreamless sleep by something wet and warm nuzzling at her hand. Recoiling at the strange sensation, she blinked awake and slipped farther under her furs. A pair of large, red eyes were watching her. They slightly the reflected the light of her dying brazier. 

“Ghost?”

The wolf pushed at her furs with his nose, resting his huge head on her cot and looking up at her with those unnatural eyes. Sansa looked around. Judging by the darkness and quiet outside the tent, it was late into the night. “Go away, sweet boy,” she told the wolf sleepily, turning away from him. A second later, Ghost appeared on the side of the cot she was now facing, wet nose again pressing against her outstretched hand. Sansa furrowed her brows. “What is it? Do you want to come up here?” She patted the furs, wondering if, like Lady had so long ago, Ghost liked to sneak into Jon’s bed. 

But the white direwolf didn’t so much as look at her hand. He kept his eyes fixed on her, deep and intent as if he were trying to tell her something. “What?” Sansa asked again, though she was fully aware the beast could not talk. Groggily, she sat up and listened for any sound that would be alarming – any possible reason the wolf could have woken her. But there was nothing. Only the quiet, broken by an occasional cough or hoot of an owl. With a huff, she dropped back down into her warm furs. 

“You can stay, sweet boy, but let me sleep.”

Ghost pushed at her again insistently. “Ghost! Stop.” 

Then, to her utter surprise, the wolf whined. It was low and quiet, but it was a noise, nonetheless. Even she knew that Ghost never made a noise. Every snarl was silent and no howl ever left him. If he was whining, that meant something. Fear began to inch into her heart. 

“What is it?” she asked again, sitting up again and looking at the wolf closely. He nudged her hand again and then moved towards the tent’s flap. Just before reaching it however, Ghost stopped and looked back at her. 

_He wants me to follow, _Sansa realized. Fingers numb in the cold air, Sansa struggled to wrap her cloak over her nightdress. She slipped the heavy, leather boots Val had gifted her onto her feet and combed a hand through her sleep-messy tresses. Through it all, Ghost waited patiently, looking up at her with those intense, crimson eyes. 

“Alright,” she murmured, sliding gloves onto her hands. “Let’s go.”

Ghost was up in an instant, leading her out of the tent and across the small clearing the King’s and his advisors’ tents were set in. Sansa stopped in her tracks when she realized where Ghost was leading her. “Ghost,” Sansa hissed. “No, it isn’t proper.” 

The wolf sat and waited a moment. When Sansa didn’t move to join him, he rose and circled her, nudging her forward with his nose. “Gods,” she muttered in frustration, but began to walk again. Her breath steamed in the frozen air and she clutched her cloak tightly about her body to avoid the chill. The guard stationed outside Jon’s tent seemed startled to see her there – and she couldn’t blame him. She knew exactly what this looked like. But there Ghost was with his insistent eyes and something deep inside Sansa urged her to follow the damned wolf. Somehow she knew something was wrong. And that something involved Jon. 

So, proprieties be damned. 

“Ghost,” Sansa said weakly to Jon’s guard. “He came to get me. I don’t-”

The guard nodded as if he understood. He was dressed all in black, though unfamiliar to Sansa, so she figured he must be one of the Night’s Watch brothers that Jon still trusted. She sincerely hoped that meant the man would keep the king’s confidence and not share with the entire camp that she’d visited him in the night come daybreak. Sansa refused to make eye contact with the guard as she slipped into the tent after Ghost. 

It was dark inside – so dark she could just barely make out the shapes of furniture. But as she let her eyes adjust, Sansa could see Ghost standing near Jon’s bed. It was only then that she noticed the sounds of distress coming from it. As she moved closer, she could hear Jon muttering in his sleep. He twisted this way and that, nearly snarling a couple times. It was when he let out a sob, however, that Sansa realized why Ghost had fetched her. 

The king was in the midst of some terrible nightmare – or night terror more by the looks of it. Quickly, Sansa threw a log from a pile to the side of the tent into Jon’s dying brazier, breathing more light into the room. It was just enough that she could see the sheen of sweat on his skin, the way his eyes were clenched tightly shut. 

“Jon,” she whispered, almost afraid to touch him in this state. Ghost, for his part, nudged his master with his wet nose. But Jon continued to twist, nearly sobbing in his sleep. 

The next time she spoke his name it was louder, with more force. “Jon.” Nothing. 

Then, tentatively, Sansa reach out and grabbed his shoulder, the action forcing her to stretch over his body. “Jon!” 

Suddenly and without any warning, there were big, strong hands tightening around her throat. Jon loomed over her in the darkness, pushing her down and into the bed with a force that knocked the wind out of her. Struggling to breathe, and with panic thrumming through her veins, Sansa tried to pull the hands away. She tried to speak – to tell him it was only her – but she couldn’t form words. Tears began to burn in her eyes as she clawed at his arms. Then, just as suddenly, the hands were gone and so was the press of Jon’s body against her own. Ghost’s hulking form stood over her, separating her from Jon. The direwolf gazed down at Sansa, licking at the tears on her cheek roughly before turning and nuzzling against Jon’s shoulder, settling half in the man’s lap. 

“Gods, Sansa – oh Gods – Sansa,” he was pushed as far from her as he could while remaining on the bed, arm outstretched to her over Ghost as if trying to provide comfort, but then he pulled it away, clearly terrified of touching her. “Sansa,” Jon whimpered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

She couldn’t speak. Sansa lay where he’d pushed her down, gasping for air as tears streamed down her face. 

Jon pushed Ghost off of him roughly and stood, his sword hand clenching as his other hand brushed anxiously though his hair. His dark eyes were still fixed on her, wide with fear and worry and guilt. Sansa pushed herself up into a sitting position, coughing a little. She realized she was shaking. Without thinking, she reached up to her aching throat. Jon back away from her then, his eyes still wild. In his haste to put distance between them he knocked over a chair but made no move to right it. 

“Jon,” she croaked, still catching her breath. 

He began to cry in earnest then, and it was such a strange, sad thing to see that Sansa momentarily forgot about the pain curling around her neck. Ghost moved to curl around her protectively, letting her lean against his hulking form as he rested his head into her lap. But an instant later, Sansa pushed him away gently and stood, crossing over to Jon on still shaky legs. The sight of his tears was too much for her to bear. “Jon,” she repeated, her voice a little stronger this time. 

He backed away from her until his back hit the fabric of the tent. Then, he held a hand out as if to stop her. “Don’t,” he whispered through shuddering gasps. “Don’t come near me.”

Somewhere in her mind, she knew she _should_ be afraid. Seven hells, he’d nearly choked the life out of her minutes before. But in the darkness of the tent, in his simple sleep clothes, with his messy hair and tear stained face – all she could focus on was her need to comfort him. To protect _him_.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, brushing his hand aside and coming closer. He wouldn’t meet her eye. “I’m okay, Jon,” she said again, voice still hoarse. 

“No,” he breathed out. “No, you aren’t. Sansa – I’m so… I… Gods…” He pushed away from her then, putting more distance between them as he paced to the other side of the tent. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was stronger now, harsher. She watched as he rubbed roughly at his eyes. “_Why_ are you here,” he hissed. 

“Ghost,” Sansa replied, nodding towards the wolf that was still on the bed, red eyes fixed on Sansa. “He woke me. He brought me here.” 

Jon shot the animal a dark look. “You shouldn’t have come. Go. Get out.” Sansa could hear the anger replacing the anguish – the rage hiding the guilt. But she had seen that momentarily glimpse into the shell he’d built around himself. She’d seen the tears and the fear in his eyes. Maybe that was what gave her the courage to shake her head no despite his dangerous tone. Despite the fact he’d nearly killed her. 

“_Go_,” Jon said again, but this time Sansa could hear the pleading tone hidden beneath his commanding voice.

Instead of leaving, she strode over to him and took him in her arms before Jon could so much as blink. He stood frozen, stock still, as she held him close and pressed her face into his neck. “I’m okay,” she whispered against his skin, letting her hands smooth up and down his broad, muscled back. Even through his sleep shirt, Sansa could feel the jagged rise and fall of scars on his skin. It made her frown. 

“Go,” Jon repeated, voice smaller this time. “Please,” he whimpered. Sansa felt his breath grow unsteady again as his heart pounded a furious rhythm beneath her ear. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder after a moment. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Jon murmured. It made Sansa’s hands fist into his sleep shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. “Please.” 

Letting go of him for only an instant, Sansa reached for and took hold of his hands where they hung at his sides, placing them on her while still keeping herself tucked close to his chest. Finally, _finally_ Jon relented and collapsed into her embrace, pulling her close and letting Sansa hold him. She whispered soothing words against his neck as he gave into his tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” he kept murmuring against her. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

After a long moment, Jon pulled away. Before he could get too far, though, Sansa reached out and grabbed his wrist. “You were shaking,” she told him. “In your sleep. You were shaking and crying out and-”

Jon tugged out of her grasp. “It was a nightmare, that was all. Ghost shouldn’t have gotten you.” He wouldn’t meet her eye. Instead, he moved towards his war table and rested his knuckles on the hard surface, his back to Sansa. She frowned and thought of the bruises that always seemed to be under his eyes; the weariness he always carried on his shoulders. Sansa moved to stand beside him. 

“Do you have nightmares often?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He looked miserable. Sansa watched as Jon’s gaze drifted down to her neck. His eyes widened at what she assumed was a blossoming bruise. With a start, Jon stumbled back from her. “Sansa-”

“You didn’t know what you were doing,” she interrupted, reaching out for his hand. “You didn’t know.” Slowly, she brought his hand up to her neck and watched his dark, troubled eyes as his fingers brushed against the sore skin. His touch was gentle – so painfully gentle and soft that the feel of it coupled with the mournful look on his face made her want to cry. He looked so much like the boy she’d known then. So young and sad and scared. “You didn’t know,” Sansa whispered again, brushing her thumb over the hand at her neck with a soft caress. 

Jon pulled his hand and his gaze away. “You should go, Sansa. I’ll send Val over in the morning with a salve. You shouldn’t… Don’t come again. Even if Ghost wakes you. Don’t come.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Jon furrowed his brows and spared her a glance. “What?”

“Nightmares. Do you have them often?”

“Sansa-”

“The men say you don’t sleep. That you don’t need to for some unnatural reason. But that isn’t true, is it? It’s the nightmares.” 

Jon frowned down at the table. He was silent for a long moment. “You don’t need to help me, Sansa. You don’t owe me-”

“It isn’t about owing you,” she told him softly. “I care about you, Jon.”

Sansa watched him swallow thickly and look away. “I nearly just killed you, Sansa. How can-”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I almost did!” He insisted, turning back to face her with a determined set to his face. His shoulders were tensed and it was only while noticing them that Sansa’s eyes landed on the slope of a semi-healed cut on his neck. Her brows furrowed. The cut should have been stitched after the last battle. Why hadn’t anyone tended to it? 

“When did you get that,” she began to ask, reaching towards the cut. He swatted her hand away. 

“Don’t.”

“Jon-”

“Just go, Sansa! Don’t you see?” He suddenly grabbed her arms. Jon’s voice was pleading again, and it forced her gaze away from his neck and back up to his face. “Sansa, I don’t trust myself around you. I can’t – especially not after tonight. Please, please, just go. I’m not… I don’t need you to take care of me, okay?” 

The untended cut on his neck said differently, but Sansa held her tongue on that issue. “I’m not afraid of you,” she told him instead. “I know you want me to be, but I’m not.” That caught Jon off guard. He stumbled back, releasing her arms. “I may not understand you,” Sansa continued, “but I’ve seen your anger. I’ve seen how you look after a battle. I know that you… that you are different. I don’t know why, but I can see it. Not just different from how you were, but from other men.” She reached out again and took his hand. Reluctantly, Jon let her. “But you don’t scare me. Even after tonight. I know you didn’t mean it.” Sansa tugged on his hand and began walking back towards the bed. When they stood in front of it, she pushed him gently until he acquiesced and sat on the pile of furs. Ghost watched them from where he still lay on the bed, eyes lazy and tired now. 

“Get in bed,” Sansa murmured. Jon eyed her carefully but did as she said, pushing himself back and away from her. The movement caused Ghost to resettle. Then, with a boldness that surprised even her, Sansa removed her cloak and gloves and slipped into the bed next to Jon. 

“What are you doing?” Jon choked out, reaching out to brace her shoulder and keep her away. Sansa tried to push his arm, but he was far too strong for her. 

“Proving that you don’t scare me.”

“Sansa,” he warned. “Don’t.”

She huffed and shoved at his chest. The unexpected move caught Jon by surprised and he fell back against the furs, allowing her to crawl in next to him. “_Sansa_, this isn’t proper.” 

Ignoring him, she lay down, draping an arm over his broad chest and resting a cheek against his shoulder. Jon was stiff as a board next to her. “When I was in the Vale I took care of my little cousin, Robert Arryn. He had nightmares too, but it helped him to have someone in the bed with him.”

“_Sansa_,” Jon warned again. 

“I’ve seen the bruises under your eyes. I know you don’t sleep often, Jon. And Ghost seemed to think it was important enough to get me, which means that it was _important_.”

Jon paused for a long moment before speaking. When he did, his voice was quiet – scared even. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Without thinking, Sansa pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “You won’t.” She knew the words were true. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. “You won’t,” she repeated, softer, relishing in the way Jon slightly relaxed beside her. Sansa curled into his warmth, the bruises on her neck utterly forgotten.

She was asleep before she knew it. 

***

When Sansa woke, Jon was already gone. That didn’t surprise her. Tentatively, Sansa reached up to her throat and winced at the soreness she found. She’d need to wear high collars for the next week. She knew she should be scared of Jon after what he’d done and embarrassed at her boldness in sharing his bed. They were children no longer after all. And he was not her brother. Yet, she couldn’t find it in her to regret any of what had transpired last night. Finally, _finally_, she felt as if she was getting closer to understanding Jon. 

The world was still painted in grey, so she forced herself from his furs and fastened her cloak about her shoulders again. She'd need to get back to her tent before too many camp followers began to wake. Ghost was laying in front of the doorway to the tent and Sansa wondered idly if he was on guard. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss right between the wolf’s eyes. “Sweet boy,” she murmured. “You come and get me again if he needs me.” She scratched him behind the ears and then slipped into the cold darkness of the morning. 

Once back in the warmth of her tent, Sansa began to peel off her gloves and draped her heavy fur cloak over a chest by the wall. She shivered – partially from the cold but mostly from the memory of Jon’s hands around her throat. 

“I suppose I should be angry with you, but truly, I’m can only be proud.” 

Sansa froze, fear twisting within her. She hadn’t realized anyone was in her tent, let alone _him_. Without turning, she could sense Petyr walking towards her from whichever shadowy perch he’d occupied in her absence. A cold hand brushed her loose hair from her shoulder, smoothing over the exposed skin of her neck. She was grateful for the cloudy darkness of the morning and the shadows in her tent. Without them, he’d have seen the bruises Sansa was sure were blooming on her skin. Then there would be more questions and then more fodder for disloyal lords. 

“You should have told me your plans, sweetling,” Petyr whispered. He was so close now she could feel his breath against her ear. Not for the first time did she wish she carried a knife on her person. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sansa replied, pulling away from the cold hands and turning to face her old mentor. “My plans are your plans.” The lie was effortless. All lies were effortless at this point. 

Petyr clicked his tongue in displeasure. “Now, now, surely I taught you better than to keep secrets from me.”

“There are no secrets-”

His hands were back on her shoulders then, slipping up to wrap around her neck. The pressure Petyr applied wasn’t enough to choke, but it was enough to remind her that such an action was within the realm of possibility. It hurt, though – badly – after Jon’s mistake. “Don’t lie. Its ugly.”

She could’ve laughed at the irony in that statement. She could have, but she didn’t.

“Where have you been all night, sweetling?”

Sansa swallowed hard. She had no excuse ready – she’d hadn’t expected anyone, let alone Baelish, to be in her tent this early. Gently brushing her loose hair, Petyr laughed quietly. She could just make out the glint of his smirking teeth in the darkness. “You aren’t stupid enough to think I don’t have you watched, are you? Oh, Sansa, really. I’d have thought our lessons together would have been a bit more effective.”

She pulled her head away and out of his grasp. “If you know where I was, then why bother questioning me?”

“I wanted to see if you’d lie to my face. After all I’d done for you, it was hard enough to believe you’d kneel to that bastard. But bed him?” He chuckled. “Oh, my dear, that I did not expect. Even after Harry.”

Sansa looked away, her face red with shame. “I didn’t bed him.”

Another small, cruel laugh. “Which one? You never did tell me what exactly happened with that buffoon in the Vale.”

Anger was welling in Sansa again. It threatened to burst forth from her – to split her into a million pieces with the force of its ire. She clenched her fists in her skirts and forced her mind to clear. “I’m simply following your lessons. You taught me to make men beg for my affections. I’d be a fool to give myself so freely.” 

This seemed to give Petyr pause. His silence told Sansa that her hook had sunk in, so she slowly began to pull at the reel. “You yourself told me that he trusts no one, and surely we have seen evidence of that these past two weeks,” Sansa continued, voice cool as silk the way she knew he liked. The way that sounded like Mother’s voice, which had always been a touch husky. “So, I thought I’d make him trust _me_, make him _want_ me. I did listen to your lessons, Petyr. I have not forgotten how you cared for me like a father during for those years in the Vale. Nor have I forgotten where my loyalty lies.” 

“Oh, my dear,” he chuckled, voice filled with pride. “I knew it. I admit, I did grow worried, but I knew I raised you to be a true player in this game. You must forgive me for doubting you in the slightest.” 

Sansa forced a tinkling, little laugh. Delicate and feminine. “Not at all, for it only means that I have been effective in persuading others to believe me on his side.” Despite the coolness of her words, Sansa’s stomach churned with nerves. This was a precipice she had not walked before. She had always played the game _with_ Petyr, never against him. He’d taught her all she knew about politics, aside from those things Cersei had taught her of course. 

“You mean to make him trust you by making him want you,” Baelish mused. “It will make it easier to avoid detection until Winterfell is recaptured, surely, which I must say is proving to be a laboriously longer wait that we were promised. But, sweetling, why stop there?”

Sansa could hear the grin in his words. Fear curled around her heart. She knew what that lilt to his voice meant. She’d heard it before. “He was my brother,” Sansa told him quietly, wholly aware of what he was about to propose. “The lords would never stand for it.”

“He is your brother no longer. Never _truly_ was your brother. He needs the Stark name, and you would win over the loyalty of the even those who remain faithful to him upon his… hmm.. _untimely_ death. Why, we wouldn’t even need a coup. You’d unquestionably be his heir by the laws of the north, your brother’s will, and your own blood.” His hands gripped her again. “Oh, my beautiful, brilliant girl. How could you have seen this before I did?”

“I am still betrothed to Harry – still married to the Imp. How-”

“Minor problems,” Petyr replied with a wave of his hand. The tent was getting lighter now as the sun rose behind the cloud cover. His face was cast in a shadow that seemed to elongate his features, making them seem more sinister. “Both easily solved by the king himself. He can annul the marriage surely, and the betrothal can be set aside.” 

It was not ideal, no, but then again, even as a girl she’d been aware her marriage would be designed to secure an alliance rather than eternalize a love. She could give him her name, and her support, in the most formal of ways. She could give him the legitimacy he currently lacked thanks to Lord Reed’s revelations. She could protect him. Mother and Father had been partners in all things. It would be nice, she thought, to have a partner after so many years of solitude. 

“Without Harry, we’ll lose the Vale.” Sansa reminded him, but her mind was already churning with possibilities.

Petyr scoffed. “The Vale can wait. It will be easy enough to rekindle a marriage between you and Harry after the north is secure.” He pulled away from her then. “I must convene with our lords – I must make them understand. The suggestion cannot come from us.”

“Howland.”

“Hmm?” Baelish turned back to her, eyebrows raised. 

“You must select one who is friends with Howland Reed and can persuade him to it. Jon’s other advisors are mostly Free Folk or former brothers of the Nights Watch. Besides, Howland Reed is his Hand. It’s him who must be convinced, the suggestion from any other lord will be met with Jon’s fury.” 

Baelish took a step back towards her. “You don’t think he will be amenable to such a match? I thought you’d been seducing him.”

“I have been trying,” she lied. “But he is stubborn and distant.” That, at least, was the truth. 

“Then,” Petyr said, cupping Sansa’s cheeks with his bony fingers. “You must try harder. I shall do my part, and you shall do yours, sweetling.” He pulled her roughly towards him and kissed her crudely on the mouth. It took every ounce of willpower left in Sansa’s body not to pull away, but she knew that any resistance to his affections would unravel the web she’d just begun to spin. She had to give him no reason to doubt her loyalty. Baelish pulled away and let his thumb trace her lip. Sansa imagined what it would be like to bite down on it – to bite down to the bone and to taste his blood on her lips. The thought made her smile. 

Baelish, of course, interpreted her smile differently. “We will make you a queen yet, my dear,” he grinned. With one last caress of her cheek, her turned and left the tent in quick strides. Sansa watched him go, her smile still dancing on her lips, as she drank in the giddiness that came with envisioning the trap she would so carefully set snapping shut around that mockingbird’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you think you are writing a dark Jon fic but then it kinda sorta turns into a dark Sansa fic??? (also I fully realize he doesn't seem that dark now, but Sansa has barely spent any time with him. That will change..)
> 
> Anyways, political marriage AU, anyone?


	9. ix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tries to stick to ~1,500 to 2,000 words a chapter*  
*fails miserably*

It’s Howland Reed who finally explained everything to her. After, it annoyed her that he hadn’t done so immediately. No, Lord Reed had taken his time – letting Sansa watch Jon from afar; observing the confusion in her eyes; evaluating the concern on her face – before he pulled her aside a few snowy mornings after Petyr confirmed he’d convinced the lords of their new plan.

The rumors about Jon, it seemed, were true. Just about all of them. 

The conversation had begun with a simple request that Sansa join Lord Reed on a short ride through the hills near the army’s encampment. Normally, she wouldn’t have thought much of the request. Over the past two weeks she’d shared similar rides and held audiences with many of the northern lords – both those who had secretly pledged their loyalty to her through Baelish and those who knew nothing of the brewing plot against Jon. And of course, there was nothing strange about the King’s Hand wishing to acquaint himself with Eddard Stark’s sole remaining child. But given the web she’d weaved with Petyr, Lord Reed’s request filled Sansa with a strange mix of excitement and nerves. 

Excitement, because her plan was working. 

Nerves, because she wasn’t sure she wanted the plan to work. 

It had seemed like an excellent idea the morning she proposed it to Petyr. Marriage to Jon would solidify Jon’s power, protect him from his scheming lords, and give her the cover she needed to work out how to _tell_ him about Baelish’s plotting without her losing his trust and him losing his temper. After all, there had to be a remedy the situation that _didn’t_ include killing half the lords. From what she’d seen of Jon and heard from those who knew him as Lord Commander, he was a capable leader and talented tactician. However, Sansa had also seen his temper and his propensity to let said temper influence his decisions – such as reacting to his lords’ complaints with a chokehold. What Sansa needed was time to work out how best to sway the lords back to Jon’s side and time to convince Jon he could trust her before revealing what she’d originally come to this camp with the intent to do – and a marriage would provide that time and the chance to build that trust.

Yes, Sansa knew the marriage plot had been a good idea at the time because she’d only been thinking about how to protect Jon. But in the hours and days, that followed, Sansa realized that she wasn’t sure how much _she_ was ready for marriage. Especially marriage to a man she once thought was her half-brother, and whom she knew next to nothing about beyond his violent temper and disposition to sulk and disappear at random. 

As a girl she’d wanted to marry a golden prince who’d write her poems and spill the contents of his heart into her ear. For a long time she thought she’d outgrown that particular dream, but now? Now, faced with yet another political marriage, Sansa felt the girl that even Joffrey and Tyrion and Petyr and Harry hadn’t been able to corrupt stirring in her heart – reminding her that _this_ marriage would not be so easily annulled as it would be performed before a weirwood. For all she’d been raised to believe in the light of the Seven, her father’s teachings on how one could not break a vow made before a heart tree remained deeply ingrained her. 

She wanted to help Jon. She did. But Sansa was also tired of giving of her soul and body in order to aid in the advancement of the men around her. 

So, with that newfound mix of excitement and nerves, Sansa found herself smiling sweetly at Lord Reed, calling for her mare to be saddled, and riding out of camp. 

He asked her first about how she was faring on the punishing marches Jon had set the army on lately, then inquired after how she felt about being back north once again. They were simple questions with easy answers that she assumed were meant to ease into a conversation about marriage. They certainly hadn’t prepared her for the information she’d return to camp with an hour later. 

It wasn’t until they’d dismounted by a little creek – their guards a safe distance away so as to prevent any eager ears – that Lord Reed broached the subject. 

“I had a most interesting conversation with Lord Wull yesterday morning. It was in regard to our need for a queen.” 

Sansa’s heart started to beat a little faster. She bent to pick up a pretty stone on the bank of the creek, feigning disinterest. “A queen?” she asked, a small smirk playing on her lips as if she thought Lord Wull’s suggestion was funny. Sansa knew full well that if Howland Reed found out that the marriage had been Petyr Baelish’s idea, even if Sansa had been the one to suggest it, he would immediately become suspicious. It was imperative, therefore, that she act as if she did not anticipate any such suggestion. It would be too easy, then, to trace it back from Lord Wull to Lord Baelish, who was known to be a close companion of hers. 

Lord Reed smiled. “Yes, Lord Wull is under the impression that a queen might… ah… temper his Grace.”

“I have no doubt Lord Wull had a ready suggestion,” Sansa told him, rising and tossing the stone into the cold water. “His daughter perhaps? His sister?”

Her father’s old friend let out a chuckle. “To be true, my lady, I have been bombarded with proposals for your cousin since the day he made me Hand. No matter what qualms these lords may have with his Grace, which I am well aware they do have grievances, that does not stop them from desiring the status given to the family of a queen.”

She schooled her face at the mention of lords with grievances. Though it was good, she supposed, that Lord Reed recognized the disunity of Jon’s nobility. “Then I assume Lord Wull’s must have been peculiar, for you to bring it up with me.”

Lord Reed looked at her for a long moment. “My lady, you strike me as someone eager to protect your family.” 

Sansa frowned. She had not expected the conversation to turn down this road. “I would hope we all aim to protect our family, Lord Reed.” 

The older man smiled. “Naturally. But tragedy has demanded the only family left to you is the King.” 

Puzzled, Sansa furrowed her brows. She’d expected Lord Reed would be blunt in any discussion of marriage. He didn’t seem to be a man to beat about the bush. “I hope you have not brought me out here only to remind me of all I have lost,” Sansa murmured, looking out across the rolling hills before them. 

“No, no, my dear. Here,” he held out a gloved hand to her. “Walk with me a little further down the bank, will you?” 

Sansa forced a smile and grasped his open palm. The creek was quite lovely in the early morning light. The snowy banks seemed to sparkle in the sun. It’d been snowing for days now. The clear skies that morning had been a welcome change. 

“I don’t wish to upset you, my lady,” Lord Reed said, pulling her attention from the idyllic scene and back to the strange conversation at hand. “But I feel it is my duty to bring certain events related to your cousin to your attention.” His face was stony in its earnestness. Fear began to creep up her spine. Was it possible he knew about Petyr’s plot? Had he brought her all this way so as to easily arrest her? To kill her?

As if sensing her sudden fear, Lord Reed reached for her hand again. “Please, don’t be frightened. I know you have been through much in your short life and have seen your share of horrors. But there is much you need to know if you intend to remain here in the north and -” 

“There is no question of my remaining,” Sansa interrupted. “This is my home.” 

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Lord Reed sighed heavily and turned his gaze upon the small stream. “My lady, it may come a shock to you, but Lord Wull had the novel suggestion that, well, you should be queen.”

Sansa faked a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

Lord Reed pursed his lips. “Well, he proposed a marriage between you and Jon.”

Now was the crucial part, Sansa knew. She had to walk the line between needing to be convinced while also not appearing to be outright opposed. With wide eyes, she took a step back. “But Jon and I were raised as siblings.”

Lord Reed nodded, a wane smile on his lips. “Yes, I know, my lady. But you are not siblings. And there is merit to such a match. It took me some time to see it, but once I did, I couldn’t help but think that Lord Wull is especially brilliant.”

Part of her wanted to roll her eyes. Lord Wull was not brilliant, no doubt his every word had been crafted by Petyr. And as for his _brilliant_ idea – well that had been all her own. 

“I could give Jon the Stark name,” she said slowly, as if the thought was just donning on her. “And a more solid claim to Winterfell.”

Lord Reed nodded. “Yes. There are some who believe, despite King Robb’s will, that Jon should not inherit the castle, let alone wear the crown. There are some concerns as to the legitimacy of your brother’s will, you see, as he believed Jon to be his brother and you and his other siblings forever lost.”

Sansa was quiet a moment, pretending to think on his words. “And what does his Grace think of this idea?”

“I have not broached it with him.”

That _did_ surprise Sansa. “What?”

“I thought it best to gauge your reaction first. I already am quite certain I know what his will be, but if you could be persuaded to the prudence of such a match then it would be easier to convince him of the same.” 

Sansa frowned. She too hadn’t thought Jon would easily warm to the idea of their marriage, but for some reason hearing that from someone who knew him so much better hurt her in a way she hadn’t expected. She didn’t know why. After all, Sansa had her own reservations about a political marriage to a man she’d been raised to believe was her brother. 

“I do not need your answer now,” Lord Reed sighed, clearly interpreting the hurt Sansa was processing as confusion or even revulsion at his suggestion. “I think it would be an exceptionally smart union, but I will respect your decision on whether or not such a match would be suitable for you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa told him, and she truly meant it. This was the first time in her life that _her_ thoughts towards a protentional marriage held the sway. For that, she could have hugged the man beside her. Sansa turned to go back to the horses, ready to return to camp and plot out how she would help Lord Reed convince Jon, when a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her. 

“My lady, there is, ah, another thing I would like to discuss with you before we return.”

Sansa turned, frowning in confusion. “My lord?”

“I don’t know how well you knew Jon as a child. After all, Ned and I agreed it was best I never visit to avoid any chance of the secret being discovered, you see. Lyanna had sworn him to secrecy, and in turn he’d sworn me to it as well. If anyone were to learn the truth of Jon’s birth it meant not only certain death for him, but also for your family who had harbored him. Even if you and your mother and siblings had no idea.”

A profound sadness washed over Sansa at the reminder that she was the last true Stark. All of Mother’s anger – all of her sense of betrayal – had been a lie. And Father. Oh, Father. The honorable Eddard Stark had lied for fourteen long years. Sansa’s eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears. When Lord Reed reached for her, Sansa barely hesitated before folding into his fatherly embrace and finally allowing the tears to fall. 

“There, there, my dear.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me,” she sniffled. 

“No need to apologize.”

“It just hurts to know I’m the last of the Starks. It frightens me.” 

“With all due respect, my lady, that is not true.” Lord Reed pulled away then. He braced Sansa’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Jon is still as much a Stark as you. He had no choice in this either, and believe me when I tell you he takes no pride in the truth of his birth. I’m sure you can imagine how he reacted to the news.” 

The thing was, Sansa couldn’t imagine it. She had no idea. She didn’t know Jon – not really. This was a truth she’d confronted often, but even more frequently in the past days as she contemplated what marriage to Jon would mean. A thought suddenly struck Sansa. Could that be the reason for his anger and his distance? The truth of his parentage? Was it shame that made him so… so savage? Was it his dragon blood? Half the Targaryens went made – isn’t that what Cersei had told her once? 

“As I was saying,” Lord Reed continued, utterly oblivious to the riddles in Sansa’s mind. “I don’t know how close you were as children, but I am certain you’ve noticed that the King is… Well, he is not quite himself.”

Sansa’s attention was immediately drawn back to the man before her. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that spread like pestilence in this camp. Especially with Lord Baelish at your side.” 

“I have heard some rather outlandish stories,” Sansa told him. She tried to ignore the shame that welled within her at the judgment in his voice when he spoke Petyr’s name. 

Lord Reed nodded, then met her eye again. “Lady Stark, I’m going to tell you a story now. I believe it is my duty to tell you it before you make any decisions regarding marriage to his Grace. I need you to swear to me by the old gods and the new that you will not, under any circumstances, share this story with anyone who does not already know it.” 

Lord Baelish’s name went unspoken. It didn’t have to be voiced for Lord Reed’s meaning to be understood. 

“I swear it,” Sansa whispered. She hoped she meant it. 

Lord Reed nodded. “Good. Good.” He sighed heavily and brushed a hand over his face. “I take it you are aware Jon was elected Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?” 

“Yes. That news reached the Vale.” 

“And did the news of his death reach the Vale?” 

Sansa frowned. “Well, yes, but then some time later we received word he had not been killed after all. I never did hear the full story, but his men saved his life, did they not? The attempt was why he deserted and why the Watch fell into chaos?” For the life of her Sansa couldn’t remember how she knew that or who had told her. Had someone even told her, or had she simply created that story to make sense of the conflicting reports? 

Beside her Lord Reed let out a short, almost bitter chuckle. “In every tale there is a seed of truth, I suppose.” 

“It didn’t happen that way?” Sansa asked. “Who saved him?” 

“Nobody.” 

Her brows furrowed at the blunt answer. “I don’t understand.” 

Lord Reed placed his hands on her shoulders again. His face was suddenly deathly serious. “My lady, Jon Snow was murdered by his men in the courtyard of Castle Black in the midst of a riot.” 

Fear swirled in her chest. “No, no that makes no sense… That man in camp is Jon. I’m sure of it,” she replied, her voice tinged with panic. That was Jon, right? Gods, had she been wrong? Was that why he was so distant? He was an imposter? 

The older man’s grip tightened on her shoulders. The pressure grounded her as her muddled thoughts breathed panic into her lungs. “Yes, that is Jon,” Lord Reed told her, his voice gentle but firm. “I promise you he is, in a sense, the same Jon Snow you were raised with in Winterfell.” 

“But how-”

“Anger had been building for a while. It spilled over into mutiny when he announced his intention to march on the Boltons in Winterfell with an army of free folk. His brothers – at least some of them – felt that it was their duty to remove him from office. There is only one way to do that at the Wall.” 

“I don’t understand,” Sansa whispered. Jon’s words from days earlier came back to her. He had told her that the second time he’d broken his vows it had been to save who he believed to be Arya – but that he’d never made it out of Castle Black. Even so, this explanation _couldn’t_ be true. _Could it?_ Her hands came up to clutch desperately at Lord Reed’s. 

“When the Tormund and his men realized what had happened, chaos erupted,” Lord Reed continued. “Satin and Val managed to drag Jon from the yard. He died from his wounds in his chambers. Val knew of the crypts beneath Winterfell, as all northerners below and above the Wall do. She and Satin felt it was only right to send his body home, but with the Boltons in control of the castle and the Watch left with uncertain governance, it was not the right time. To prevent his body from being burned and to spare it from rot, they hid his corpse in the ice cells within the Wall.” 

Sansa felt as if she was spinning. Lord Reed’s words made no sense. She didn’t understand. _She didn’t understand._

“For six moons it remained undiscovered as the Watch collapsed. Even Stannis Baratheon couldn’t salvage the ancient order. I arrived two moons after the assassination to discover my mission had been in vain – you see, the gods had come to me in a dream as a three eyed raven, they told me it was time to reveal the truth to Jon. But it was too late. The child I’d sworn to protect with my silence was dead. Still, I remained at the request of King Stannis. I’m sure you can imagine my shock when, four moons later, I was roughly woken in the night by Val and told to follow her into the Wall. Ghost, apparently, had returned after escaping from the fort during the chaos after Jon’s death. That night, he’d sought out Val. She knew what it meant. She and I had formed a friendship in my time at the Wall. And Jon… Jon was too much for her and Satin to handle alone. He didn’t come back the same, you see.” 

“I don’t understand,” Sansa repeated. Her voice was loud. Too loud. She could hear the panic in it but was powerless to stop the pounding of her heart. She felt weak suddenly and dropped sharply to her knees. Lord Reed followed. 

“Please, my dear, you must listen.” 

“I don’t understand – how could he have died – how can he be here-” 

Firm hands cupped her face. “Listen, Sansa. Listen.”

She gulped in air. Her hands curled in the snow, desperately trying to take hold of something solid. 

“The gods saw fit to bring him back. I can’t explain it. Val has her theories that are more than like to be true. Tormund certainly seems to think so and I don’t doubt her knowledge. I have seen what the gods are capable of before.”

“How-”

“_Listen._ Death changes a man. I’ve heard tales before of men who died and were brought back by some god or another – or some sorcery. Whoever Jon was before is not who is he now. He was barely coherent when we first found him, my lady. It was two weeks before he even spoke a word. What’s more, it appears he warged in to Ghost moments before his death. For six moons he lived as a wolf and then came back to the world of man in a resurrected body. He’s not right, Sansa.” 

Old Nan’s tales came back to her in an instant. The scary ones that Arya had always liked to hear when the ancient woman put them to bed as little girls. There was one in particular she remembered about a skinchanger who spent too long as a bear and became one himself – even when back in his human skin.

Sansa gripped Lord Reed’s arms again. Lord Reed hesitated for a long moment before continuing. “We’ve done the best we can, Val, Tormund, Satin, and I, to shield the worst of Jon’s tendencies from his men so he doesn’t end up with yet another mutiny on his hands. I can’t begin to explain the panic we felt when a contingent of northern lords suddenly appeared at Castle Black insisting on crowning Robb Stark’s brother only two moons after he came back. I toyed with telling them then that he was no brother of the late king, but ultimately, I knew that was Jon’s decision to make. However, Lady Stark, your cousin is not lost. Not fully. It has been a slow process but pieces of him have returned steadily over the last several months. What’s more, Val seems to think you can expedite that. You’re someone good from his past – from before the betrayal or the Watch. Someone he knows he can trust. She thinks that may help… tame… him, for lack of a better word.”

Guilt melded with the fear and panic that bubbled in Sansa’s throat. He couldn’t trust her. He absolutely couldn’t. Gods, if only he knew. If only Lord Reed and Val knew. The things Petyr would do with this information… 

“You can give him something to live for – something more meaningful than a hollow crown. As your husband, he would have a sense of duty to you, which is more than he had before you arrived. It could help, but please, Lady Stark, I don’t mean to pressure you. I thought it was only right I make the truth plain to you now that marriage is on the table. Marriage to the king would be… a challenge.” 

Lord Reed was silent a moment, finally letting Sansa process his words. 

“So, the rumors are true then? All of them?” she finally asked. Her breathing had finally calmed, though Sansa could still feel her heart pounding in shock and fright. 

Her father’s friend’s frown deepened. “What have you heard?” 

“That he is a wolf and a wight and a wildling,” Sansa muttered. “That he doesn’t sleep or eat. That he’s bloodthirsty and trusts nobody. That he’s unpredictable and unstable. I have tried to discover the truth myself, but he won’t let me in enough to know.” 

Her father’s old friend nodded slowly. “Aye,” he murmured. “We’ve done our best to hide it but, in an encampment…” With a defeated sigh, Lord Reed stood, pulling Sansa up with him. The bottom half of her skirts were soaked with melted snow. “When he first came back, he was more wolf than man. Time and practice have begun to beat that out of him, but there are moments… Well, you saw him and Lord Liddle. As to him being a wight, I can’t rightly tell you. Aye, he was dead and now doesn’t seem to be – but ask anyone who has _seen_ a wight and they’ll tell you he’s not one. A wildling? No. Though the free folk have essentially adopted him as their new king as well – which is unheard of for a Stark.” Lord Reed smiled, as if to trying to lighten the mood. 

Sansa ignored the attempt and pushed on. “And the other rumors? Does he eat or sleep? Is he as bloodthirsty as they say?”

Lord Reed’s face fell slightly, but he nodded and continued. “The lad _attempts_ to sleep.” Instantly, Sansa felt Jon’s hand on her throat again. Without thinking she rubbed at the skin. “He eats as well. Like as not that tale started because he never eats with his men and rarely accepts food from the camp’s cooks. That’s one of the, ah, lingering effects of spending half a year as a direwolf. He prefers his meat raw.”

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. “Raw?”

“Aye,” Lord Reed looked away, refusing to meet her eye. “When he disappears its often to hunt with Ghost.” Then, as if desperately trying to keep Sansa from bolting, he reached for her hand and spoke more earnestly. “But he’s doing better now about eating other things – gods be good he is _trying_ in that respect if not in others.” She thought about the way he’d pushed the stew around in his bowl at dinner nights before. An image of Jon tearing into a haunch of raw meat crossed her mind. She shivered in dread. “As to him being bloodthirsty – well I’m not sure I’d call him that exactly.”

“What would you call him?” Though she asked the question, Sansa wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Lord Reed seemed to think on it a moment. “He fights to kill. I’ll leave it at that.” 

Sansa swallowed thickly and covered her eyes. “I feel like I’m going to be ill.” 

The man beside her sighed. “It is much to take in, I know. And I am sorry, my lady, for upsetting you. I only thought it right you know. The man is ashamed of himself; he’d never tell you. And its only right you know if you are to contemplate marriage.”

Pushing down her shock and revulsion, Sansa nodded and wiped her tears away. “Thank you,” she said, pleased when her voice came out steadier than she felt. “All I have wanted these past weeks is to understand. Now I do.”

Lord Reed smiled weakly. “I suppose you have your answer to Lord Wull’s suggestion now,” he said, voice rueful and defeated. 

Sansa frowned. She’d been so absorbed in this newly discovered truth that she hadn’t thought of the marriage plot in light of it. She’d known before that Jon was no golden-haired prince. But then again, she’d met a golden-haired prince and he’d turn out to be a monster. Perhaps, the monster could turn out to be a prince. After all, in all her interactions with him, Jon had been kind, if distant. “I think,” Sansa said slowly, “I should like to discuss it with his Grace myself.” 

“The marriage?” Lord Reed grimaced. 

Sansa nodded. “The marriage and all that you have told me.” She squared her jaw and set her shoulders. She was a Stark of Winterfell. It would not due to hide in the shadows any longer. “I think it is past time that my cousin and I are honest with one another.” 

With that, she turned and began the short walk back to her mare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that is was right for Howland to explain this, not Jon. Jon's too far gone to ever admit to this stuff to Sansa, but in the future the intricacies and consequences of his death will be explained by him, not a surrogate. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope this didn't feel like telling rather than showing. At some point, someone had to just sit Sansa down and give her a summary of what happened. 
> 
> Next chapter will be delightfully dramatic and angsty :)


	10. x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop making promises about what the next chapter will contain because then I start writing and everything changes. 
> 
> Anyways, I’ll be the first to admit the scenario here is a bit contrived, but let’s all just pretend it’s logical because hey, this is fanfiction.

After her ride with Lord Reed, Sansa had wanted to speak with Jon immediately. In fact, the moment after she dismounted she began walking towards the King’s tent at a brisk pace. She’d wanted to talk to him before she lost her nerve – before something else came up – before Petyr found her and needled at her about what she and Howland Reed had discussed. But, as luck would have it, just as her snow-trodden boots stopped in front of Jon’s tent, a war horn’s shriek rang through camp. In an instant, the muddy field came to life. Men and spearwives ran to their tents to prepare as scouts came thundering back into camp. Next to her, Jon stepped out into the early afternoon sunlight, a grim look on his face. 

“Sansa?”

She stared at him, overwhelmed by the sudden commotion and still somewhat reeling from Lord Reed’s revelations. Jon stared back, frowning slightly at her blank expression, before Satin came sprinting over to them. 

“You Grace!” he shouted, trying desperately to catch his breath. “Bolton loyalists are on the move just south of us. They make for battle!”

Jon all but growled. “Damn Liddle and damn his piss poor _scouts_! Gather the councilors to my tent-”

“There’s no time,” Satin interrupted. “I need to help you arm. They’ll be over the rise soon – Rorick said we’d have less than an hour before they overrun us.” 

Jon bit out a curse again. “We cannot march into battle with no organization! If there is no-”

“I can help!” Sansa suddenly said, her hand reaching out to grab Jon’s arm. The words sounded distant and it took her a moment to register they’d come from her mouth. Jon’s dark gaze fell on her, eye’s thunderous in their anger and frustration. 

“What?”

“I can help secure your armor.” She dropped her hand from his arm and turned to Satin. “You go summon the councilors.”

Satin stared back at her with wide eyes. “M-my lady, do you even know how to secure armor?”

No. No she did not. “Well enough. You said there is no time, so go!” 

Satin looked at Jon, clearly seeking his approval on this unexpected development. Her cousin was still frowning at her. “Sansa this is madness,” he told her in that low, gravelly voice that made something deep within her ache. _Madness._ Sansa thought about what Lord Reed had told her and shivered. __

_ _“What is madness is wasting time arguing about this,” she told him, her tone clipped and tight. Without another word, she turned and entered his tent. Ghost was standing at alert right inside. His ears were pricked up, no doubt listening to the commotion outside. Naturally, Jon’s raven began to squawk at her from his perch on the back of one of Jon’s chairs. _ _

_ _“Have you ever done this before,” Jon asked gruffly. Sansa turned to see him enter the tent. His face was still drawn in anger. _ _

_ _She blushed. There was no use lying though. He’d find out soon enough. “No, but I’m a fast learner.” _ _

_ _He huffed in frustration and clenched his jaw. “Do as I tell you, then. And be quick about it.” _ _

_ _Then he began instructing her – pointing out pieces of armor and explaining how to fasten them to his body. In the places he could reach, Jon did the work while she stood a breath away watching. Sansa was grateful for the commotion outside and the fear eating away at her from the threat of an impending battle. Otherwise, the way her task required her to be so close to Jon would be overwhelming. Even in the chaos, Sansa couldn’t help but notice how _intimate_ it felt to be dressing him for war. She bit her lip as she realized that this armor – these pieces of metal and mail and leather – could be the only things between him returning to this tent and him lying cold and lifeless on the field. _ _

_ _Then another thought struck. _What if he couldn’t die?_ Was he even alive? Truly alive? Lord Reed’s words swirled in her head as she bent her head securing one of his gauntlets. He seemed too warm to be dead, though. And far too impassioned to be little more than a wight. Once the piece was fashioned securely, Sansa pulled away and found herself caught on Jon’s stare. _ _

_ _“You should be making for the other end of camp. Away from where battle could be,” he murmured. _ _

_ _Unable to resist the urge, even knowing some of what he was, Sansa reached out and smoothed her hand over his breastplate. She remembered how it felt to be crushed against that metal when he had pulled her into him that first evening. “My place is here,” Sansa replied. And to her surprise, she meant those words. The thought of being anywhere _but_ there in his tent doing what she could to aid in his battle preparation seemed almost laughable. “Are we done?” _ _

_ _Jon nodded. There was a strange expression on his face that Sansa couldn’t quite place. “The last thing is my helm, but I don’t need it yet. Satin should be back by then.”_ _

_ _Sansa dropped her hand from his breastplate. “I want to stay.”_ _

_ _“What?”_ _

_ _“I want to stay,” Sansa repeated, voice firmer now. “When your councilors come and you plan the battle. I want to listen.”_ _

_ _“Sansa,” Jon warned. He cut a rather intimidating figure fully armed with his sword slung across his back. If she were still a girl, Sansa knew she’d think he looked like a villain from one of her songs than a hero. There was something dark and dangerous to him, though Sansa wasn’t sure if she just thought that because of what she’d learned that morning. _ _

_ _“Please, Jon. I’m so tired of being kept in the dark.”_ _

_ _At that his frown deepened. “You need to get safely away. Satin said-”_ _

_ _As if summoned by his name, Satin burst into the tent. He was followed by Lord Reed, Tormund Giantsbane, Val, and a gaggle of lords. _ _

_ _“Lady Stark,” Lord Reed said with a smile, though the look in his eyes was hard and full of worry. “Please excuse us, we need to discuss the battle plans with his Grace.” _ _

_ _Sansa looked at Jon once more but saw only rejection in his features. Gritting her teeth, Sansa nodded and moved to leave. _ _

_ _“Lady Stark is staying.”_ _

_ _Sansa stopped dead in her tracks. Jon’s words had been said in such a commanding, decisive way that they left the councilors unable to question his statement – though she could clearly see many of them wanted to. _ _

_ _“Come,” Jon then said. “Let us discuss.” _ _

_ _Sansa stood next to Jon as the councilors circled the large war table. Silently, she listened as each person noted their suggestions and concerns; as numbers were evaluated and odds calculated. There was an urgency nearing on panic that colored the debate. She could practically feel Jon thrumming with energy next to her and when her eyes flashed to where Howland Reed was watching her she remembered what he’d told her that morning. _He fights to kill._ _ _

_ _Gods, she still had so many questions. _ _

_ _Namely, how, in the light of the Seven, could a man who had been dead for six moons be standing next to her, so very full of violent life? _ _

_ _“It’s decided then,” Jon announced with a tone of finality that startled Sansa out of her thoughts. “Prepare your units. We march on my order.”_ _

_ _The councilors nodded, their faces solemn and drawn, and filed out of the tent until only Sansa, Jon, and Satin, his steward and squire, remained. _ _

_ _“Good luck, your Grace,” Sansa said softly. She could feel sudden tears welling in her eyes as the full gravity of what was happening – that this could be the last time she spoke to him – struck her. When she turned to leave, Jon’s hand reached out for her own. The leather and mail were cold against her skin, but she let him draw her back to him. From the corner of her eye she could see Satin turning away. Something about that made her blush. _ _

_ _“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon told her. His voice was gentle in way that she hadn’t quite heard it be yet. Somehow, it reminded her of him as a boy. It also reminded her of how scared he’d been of himself only a few nights ago. Before she knew it, the affection swelling in her chest spilled out and she found herself on the tips of her toes, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek right under that angry, white scar. When she pulled away, there was a faint blush spreading across Jon’s skin. His stormy eyes were wide in surprise. _ _

_ _“I’ll be praying for victory. And for you,” she murmured._ _

_ _Jon swallowed thickly and nodded; wide eyes locked on her lips. The blaring of a war horn seemed to wake her from a daze. Sansa pulled away, and after taking one more long look at her king, she hurried out of the tent and towards where she knew the camp followers would be taking refuge during the battle. _ _

_ _For the first time in years, she prayed. _ _

_ _***** _ _

_ _Petyr found her huddled by a fire as they waited out the battle. _ _

_ _Revulsion hit her as she watched him weave through the women, the elderly, and the injured. _ _

_ __He should be fighting. He should be risking his life like the rest of the lords. Like any man with honor would. Like a northerner would._ _ _

_ _“My lady,” he said in that serpentine way that always made her jaw tighten. “A little bird told me that you were seen leaving the King’s tent just now. Did you bestow a favor upon his Grace?”_ _

_ _She plastered a coy smile onto her face. “A lady’s business is her own, Lord Baelish.” _ _

_ _He chuckled. “Well, my understanding is that soon it will be the talk of this little camp of ours.”_ _

_ _Sansa forced herself not to scoot over when he sat beside her. She wasn’t quite sure why his proximity was such a burden now. She’d spent years in the Vale getting rather used to his constant touches and invasions of her space. Ever since leaving that place, though, she’d noticed these incursions on her being more and more. _ _

_ _They irritated her more and more. _ _

_ _“I did hold up my end of our deal, sweetling,” Petyr continued, his voice low and quiet. “I am still waiting for you to hold up your own.”_ _

_ _“It takes time,” she muttered back. _ _

_ _“I heard you went riding with Lord Swamp.”_ _

_ _Sansa pursed her lips at the childish name. “He took the bait you dangled from Lord Wull. He sought my opinion on the match.”_ _

_ _“And?”_ _

_ _She turned and looked Petyr in the eye. “I told him I wanted to talk to his Grace about it myself.”_ _

_ _Littlefinger let out a light chuckle. “Smart girl. I’m sure you’ll manage to _convince_ him as well as you _convinced_ Harry.” ___ _

_ _ _ _Sansa felt bile rise in her throat. Standing abruptly, she looked out to where the sun was starting to fall beneath the horizon. “We shouldn’t discuss this here.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“No, of course not,” Petyr smirked. “Though before you go, my dear, I’d remind you that we are due to reach Winterfell in less than two moons.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She could read the threat between the words. Jon would be dead in three moons, if Petyr's plans were fruitful. And she’d need to marry him before that. Anger swelled in her gut, but she simply nodded and continued on her way._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Hours later the thunder of hooves alerted her and the others to the return of the soldiers. Sansa watched Jon dismount and make for his tent. Once more he was bloody and muddy and had a wild look in his eye – a look that took on new meaning to her now. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She didn’t regret keeping that particular truth from Petyr, but she also couldn’t say that it didn’t frighten her to know what Jon had become. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Suddenly, as if sensing her gaze, Jon locked eyes with her. For a moment, Sansa forgot to breathe. Then his attention was pulled away by some lord or another. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ __Not tonight_, she told herself. She wouldn’t talk to him tonight. Not after a battle. Not when he had that look in his eye. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Not tonight, but soon. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _***** _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Sleep eluded Sansa all that night. Just as dawn was beginning to creep into the world, she rose with the sudden urge to simply be _out_ of the confines of her tent. Dressing quickly, Sansa ran her conversation with Petyr over in her mind as she’d done all night. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She’d always known on some level that she had to tell Jon about Petyr and his schemes. She couldn’t work her way out of this puzzle without being honest. Well, she likely _could_, but she didn’t want to. Sansa was tired of always playing a game. And, for some unknown reason, she found herself sick at the thought of lying to Jon. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Slipping out of her tent, Sansa froze. A few yards away Jon too was leaving his tent. He was dressed in his heavy cloak and Ghost moved silently at his side. Together, the pair began to weave their way through the tents and towards the woods. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _A dark chill ran over Sansa. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She knew what he was doing. She knew where he was going. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Swallowing a wave of nausea, Sansa ducked back into the relative warmth of her tent. Her heart was pounding in her chest as the image she’d had the day before replayed in her mind. Jon, dark and wild and silent as his wolf, tearing into raw flesh. Her shivers had nothing to do with the cold. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ _A wolf, a wight, a wilding._ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Her king. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Her cousin. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _And very possibly her future husband. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _***** _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Her opportunity finally came two days later when she happened to cross paths with Jon on her way back from visiting with Val._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Your Grace,” Sansa called as he passed, deep in conversation with Howland Reed. Irritation flashed across Jon’s features until his eyes found her and his frown melted into that funny little sulky smile of his. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Lady Stark,” he nodded, walking towards her with Lord Reed on his heels. Sansa tried to ignore the way his companion’s knowing eyes bored into her. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Suddenly nervous at the prospect of what she knew she must do, Sansa cleared her throat. “I was just on my way to saddle my mare; would you care to join me?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jon pursed his lips and Sansa could tell he was in the midst of some internal debate. Unexpectedly, Howland Reed rested a hand on Jon’s shoulder and smiled widely. “Go, your Grace. I’ll tell Lord Umber something came up.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Now trapped into agreeing, Jon nodded without meeting Sansa’s eyes. She exchanged a look with Lord Reed whose cheery expression seemed to be tinged with worry. He nodded at her once, the gesture clearly meant to indicate he knew her intention. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Smiling so as to conceal the fear beginning to creep down her spine, Sansa looped her arm through Jon’s. She ignored the way he stiffened. “I hope I’m not pulling you away from anything too pressing,” she murmured as they began to make their way through camp. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jon was quiet for a long moment before responding. “No, nothing pressing.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The rest of the walk was silent as Jon all but sulked beside her and Sansa ran through how to begin this conversation in her mind. She had no idea how Jon would respond to her knowing what had happened to him – to her knowing what he was and what he did. And on top of that there was the fact that she _knew_ she needed to tell him of Petyr’s plotting – which he was even less likely to take well. Sansa was rather certain that he would _absolutely_ not take that well. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _And then, of course, there was the _simple_ topic of marriage. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The silence continued as they saw their horses saddled and road out towards the wilderness beyond camp. Jon let her lead, his horse remaining slightly behind her own. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Finally, once the din of camp had fallen away and Sansa was certain no wandering eyes or sharp ears could pry, she broke the silence. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Sansa dismounted and looked expectantly up at Jon who, with a sigh, dismounted as well and tied their horses off on a tree. Even more reluctantly, he took her outstretched arm in his own and let her lead him a little further into the woods. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I wanted to speak with you,” Sansa told him as they came to a stop by a gnarled old sentinel. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jon pulled away from her and looked back the way they’d come. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You see,” Sansa continued, steeling herself. “Lord Reed… well, he told me about it.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Jon frowned but still didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze found his own boots. “About what?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She took a deep breath. _Seven help me_. “He told me that you died.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _In an instant, his dark Stark grey eyes flashed up to her._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehehe sorry (to be continued)


	11. xi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I wanted to get it right. I hope I did. 
> 
> This chapter is also long – but it didn’t feel right to split it up. 
> 
> Anyways…. I hope you like it

He took a stuttering breath and stepped away from her. Sansa hardened herself, resisting the urge to reach out and pull him in into her – to brush away his blatant distress with a soft whisper and warm embrace. But this wasn’t the time for that. This conversation wouldn’t be easy, and she’d known that when cornered Jon and asked him to come on this ride with her. 

“Sansa,” Jon whispered. “Sansa – I don’t know what he-”

“You were murdered by your brothers,” Sansa interrupted. Now she did take a step towards him. “That’s what you meant the other day, isn’t it? When you said you meant to leave for Winterfell, but you never made it out of Castle Black. You didn’t make it to Winterfell then because they killed you.”

His whole body radiated fear and distress – his shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides. It was as if Jon had turned in on himself. Like he had folded within his body in a desperate attempt to disappear. Sansa took another step forward. When Jon took a step another away, his back hit the rough bark of the sentinel towering above them. 

“But you didn’t die. Not really. You’re a skinchanger like Old Nan use to tell us about – you warged into Ghost and lived in his skin for six moons.” It took all of Sansa’s strength to keep her voice steady. To not let her fear of what he had become show. Because that was the truth wasn’t it? For all she wanted to protect him, for all she wanted to help him, Sansa was still afraid. 

“Sansa,” Jon pleaded weakly, but she didn’t let him interrupt. 

“Your body somehow healed – somehow was made living, and your mind or your soul or whatever _it_ is that _wargs_ returned to it. Lord Reed said you’d forgotten how to be a man. He said you still aren’t quite… not quite the Jon I remember.”

Suddenly something flared in his wide, panicked eyes. Something dark and fuming but still, strangely, afraid. In an instant he had shoved himself away from the ancient tree, pushing past Sansa and pacing a few steps beyond her. When he spoke, it was with a harsh voice, a bitter voice, and with his back to her startled face. “And what Jon do _you_ remember, _sister_?” 

She stood frozen, mouth agape at his outburst of fury. 

He whipped around at her silence, hard glare fixing on her. “Stop pretending we were close as children – stop pretending there is any affection between us. We lived in different worlds then, and we still do now.”

It felt as if an icy bucket had been washed over her, waking her from her shocked stupor. Suddenly, Sansa’s anger flared red hot. “_Different worlds?_ It appears to me that we are very much in the same _world_ now! We need-”

“What? Because I’m a king now,” Jon growled, stalking back towards her again like an animal circling its prey. “Because I’m a Targaryen? You always loved those songs, didn’t you?”

“Because you’re my king and my cousin!”

Jon scoffed. “You don’t know me. You never did.”

“Howland-”

“I don’t care what Howland told you – He had _no right_ to tell you _anything_!” That crazed look was back in his eye and a little voice in the back of Sansa’s mind told her to leave – to run and to stop provoking him and to just forget all about this. But she was angry. Oh, she was angry, and tired of being so utterly alone. She wouldn’t let him make her the last Stark.

“He felt I had a right to know! Jon, I can help you – I can-”

“I don’t want your help,” he snarled.

“Maybe not, but Seven Hells, Jon, you need it!”

“Did he tell you everything then?” Jon loomed over her now. It felt as if Sansa’s heart was going to beat out of her chest. When he spoke, she could feel his hot breath on her. The sensation made her belly flutter. “Did he tell you that when I came back I ripped out a man’s throat with my own teeth? Did he tell you I still hunt _and eat_ with Ghost? Did he tell you-”

“He told me enough,” Sansa interrupted, afraid of what may come out of his mouth next. She shoved him away from her then, moving a few steps back to give herself some distance. The image of him with blood in his mouth was too vivid in her mind. Too easy to imagine. “And I’ve heard the talk around camp!”

For the briefest breath of a second, some other emotion flickered in his dark irises – something almost vulnerable, almost scared. Suddenly the truth dawned on her, and her anger evaporated as quickly as snow from a fire. “You’re trying to push me away,” she murmured. “You’re trying to scare me.”

Jon scoffed and looked away. 

“You are!” She stepped back into his space then, and roughly tugged at the leather straps that fastened his cloak, forcing his body to face hers once more. “Don’t be a fool, Jon. You _need_ me.” 

“I don’t _need_ you – you don’t even know what I am, Sansa! _I_ don’t know what I am,” he roared back, pulling away from her grasp. 

She was quiet a moment, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest, his breath coming fast with rage and exertion. Then, slowly, she moved towards him yet again. “But you do need me.” Her voice was a whisper, soft and gentle as if reaching out to a frightened animal. “Oh, Jon, you do.” She tried to touch him, but he swatted her hands away and stepped out of her reach once more. “Your lords plot against you,” Sansa continued. Jon’s back was to her now as he stared off into the trees, shoulder tight and tensed – made so much larger and more imposing by his heavy, black cloak. “They don’t trust you, and they don’t want you as their king.”

“Do you honestly believe I wasn’t aware of what they think? That I don’t know what they say about me?”

“I can help you deal with them.”

He turned back to her then, face still clouded in fury. “And how do you propose you do that,” Jon sneered. 

“They made you king because of Robb’s will – but then your true birth was revealed. Their excuse now is that you are not a Stark. They don’t care who your mother was – all that matters is that Robb’s legitimization makes you a Targaryen.” Jon’s face somehow grew darker with her words. The scar across his brow and cheek seemed more menacing than ever and for a moment she could see the dragon in him, not just the wolf. “That along with your… your behavior… They don’t trust you. They need a Stark they can trust.”

“And that’s you?” Jon growled lowly. “I’ve already offered you the damn crown, Sansa. You can take the bloody thing if that’s what you’re after.”

She shook her head. “Robb named you. I don’t want the crown.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Then what do you want?”

“It is not what I want – it’s what you need. I can _give_ you the Stark name – I can help you navigate your court. A marriage between us would legitimize-” 

“No.” 

More than anything – more than the rage or the flash of his eyes or the vision of his blood-stained mouth – the low, gravelly, calmness of his voice in that moment frightened her to her bones. Sansa swallowed thickly, tightening her hands around each other so as to stop their shaking. _This was Jon. Beneath this ire was Jon. Jon who had been raised by her father, Jon who had mussed Arya’s hair, Jon who had slipped her his lemon cakes at dinner because he knew she loved them best._ She would not be afraid. 

“Jon, consider-”

“No.” He repeated, eyes hard and cold. "I don't need you. Even if I did, you're a fool to think I would place my needs above your wants." Without another word he turned and began to walk back to their horses, giving her little option than to follow behind, running slightly to keep pace with his wide, deliberate strides. The ride back to camp was silent and tense. Jon kept his horse well ahead of her so as to make a conversation impossible, but close enough that she could follow. As soon as they reached the outskirts of camp, he kicked his heels and was gone. 

At first, Sansa just felt sick. 

Then, after some time, she simply felt hopelessly sad. 

Just as the sun fell below the horizon, the anger set in. 

Anger at Jon for his temper and his distrust. Anger at Howland Reed for not telling her sooner. Anger at Petyr Baelish for – well – _everything_. Mostly, though, she was angry with herself. She had handled the conversation poorly and she knew it. Sansa had gone into it with a plan. She’d spent hours rehearsing little speeches, coaching her facial expression, plotting out which arguments would be most persuasive. But just as that first night when she saw Jon after seven, long years apart, her plans had blown away in the wind – replaced by the emotion of the moment. Sansa _hated_ how easily he made her come apart; how quick she’d been to feel and match his anger; how distracted she’d been by the sharp line of his shoulders and cold glint in his grey eyes. 

She was better than _this_! She _had_ to be if she was to have any hope of keeping Jon alive.

Refusing supper and ignoring Val and Lord Reed’s pointed looks, Sansa isolated herself within her tent that afternoon; not leaving even as the light began to fade in the west. She sat by her small brazier, irritably stabbing at her embroidery and muttering to herself about all the things she should have said. A flutter of movement at the door to her tent made her heart stutter in her chest, but when she looked up it was only into a familiar pair of red eyes. Sansa's budding smile faltered when she remembered Lord Reed’s words. How was she ever to know now where Ghost ended, and Jon began now? How was she ever to know _whose_ eyes were gazing at her from that lupine face? 

She sighed. “Well don’t lurk there, Ghost. Come along.” The wolf loped forward at her words, settling by her feet with a contented breath that left her unable to hide a smile. 

“My lady?”

Sansa froze, her gaze darting to the flap of her tent once more. She could see his shadow beyond the fabric, illuminated by the dying sun. The light contorted him in strange ways – making him seem larger than any normal man, hulking and dangerous and covered in fur. Her fingers tightened on her embroidery cloth. 

“Come in,” Sansa called, hoping the quake in her voice wasn’t as audible as it had seemed to her. 

He hesitated a moment before ducking in. For a moment his face remained clouded in shadows from the light at his back, but then the flap closed, and the light of her brazier fell onto his solemn Stark features, illuminating that jagged scare and casting a strange glint in his irises. He looked miserable. Absolutely and utterly miserable. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Jon murmured, slowly dragging his gaze from the floor up to her face, as if waiting to see if he had permission to enter fully – permission to stay – permission to speak further. "Gods, I'm so sorry."

Sansa set down her embroidery and nodded, granting him whatever permission it was he was waiting to receive. With a heavy sigh, Jon slumped into a chair across from her. He was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, he sounded small and sad and so very, very tired. “You were right. I wanted to scare you away. I still do.”

“Jon-” Sansa began, but he held up a large, gloved hand to stop her. 

“You should be scared, Sansa. I’m not…” he sighed wearily again. “I don’t trust myself. I don’t _know_ myself. You saw me today. Sometimes I just get so angry and I just… I don’t know what it is that comes over me. But I do know that I don’t want you around me when that happens. Gods, Sansa, I can’t stop thinking about the other night and how badly I could have hurt you. I can’t stop thinking about those bruises and you crying and-”

“Jon,” she interrupted again, immediately rising and crossing to where he sat. She knelt in front of him, forcing him to look at her. The unshed tears and that hollow, mournful look in his grey eyes made her want to weep. “I’m okay,” Sansa whispered urgently, desperate for him to believe her. 

“But you _weren’t_. I saw how scared you were – and if Ghost hadn’t been there to wake me – to stop me…” Jon’s gruff voice trailed off as he determinedly looked away. “I didn’t want Howland to tell you. I told him not to when he asked weeks ago. I can barely stand _myself_, Sansa, and you’ve lost so much already. I don’t want to scare you or hurt you, but I know that I will. I keep hoping you’ll just ask me for the crown and we can be done with it.”

She stood then and moved to pour herself a small glass of wine. The Seven had given her another chance at this conversation and she was determined to do it right this time. To lay it out clearly and calmly, and to not let the opportunity here slip between her fingers like so many things had in her short life. 

The correct path, she knew, lay opposite of everything Petyr and Cersei had taught her. 

It lay in the truth. 

“You do scare me,” Sansa told him, turning in him to see his wide eyes. “What Lord Reed told me scares me. How I’ve seen you behave – your anger this afternoon – that scares me. But what scares me _more_ is the risk of losing you completely.”

“Sansa-”

“For seven years I have been so utterly alone, Jon. I was a captive to the Lannisters and then isolated in the Eyrie, parted from even my own name. I have been used as a piece and a pawn; I have watched my father killed; I have been forced to disown my family and my name and all that I believed in as a girl. But I’m not alone anymore.” She watched Jon swallow as her voiced cracked over those last words. Her throat felt thick, as if it were sealing itself shut to keep her from laying herself so bare after nearly a decade of hiding her heart from the world. Setting her wine glass aside, Sansa moved to her former brother once again, kneeling before him and taking both of his warm hands in her own. “Do you know what I came here with the intention to do, Jon? Lord Baelish intended for me to deny your right and to claim my own. I wasn’t supposed to kneel to you that first night.” She watched his brows draw together; his mouth deepened its frown. “But then I saw you – I saw how you’ve grown to look so much my father, so much like a Stark. For the first time in so long I felt like I wasn’t alone. I finally, finally felt safe.”

She felt Jon’s hands tighten around her own. “So, yes, you scare me – but the thought of something happening to you, or of you not letting me at least attempt to know you scares me much more. I’m so tired of being alone, Jon. For years I have been told I am the last Stark. I don’t want to be the last Stark.”

It was only when one of his hands left hers to brush gently across her cheek that Sansa realized she was crying. Jon’s eyes, which had been so full of fury hours before, were warm in a way she’d never seen before. Perhaps it was her proximity to him or the way the brazier’s light hit or simply her imagination, but she could have sworn the dark of his irises looked almost violet. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he told her in a soft tone that made his northern brogue more pronounced. “I’m so afraid of hurting you. It isn’t that I don’t want you here or that I don’t want to know you – believe me, Sansa, that is not at all what I want. But once you see me, truly see me, you’ll wish you were the only one left.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. “Lord Reed said there was hope. He said that overtime you’ve come back to yourself.”

Jon looked away from her then, dropping the hand that had been at her cheek. “I was _dead_,” he bit out. “Once does not simply come back from that.”

Frowning, Sansa stood again and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I could help though, could I not? Lord Reed seemed to think that-”

“Damn _Lord Reed_,” Jon suddenly cursed, cheeks flushing with color. He stood now too, pacing in agitation. “He doesn’t know any better than I do the ways of this… this… sorcery. He’s no expert in-”

“He is only trying to help,” Sansa interrupted softly. 

Jon turned his gaze back at her before looking to the floor sheepishly. “Forgive me, Sansa. It just grates on me sometimes, the way he looks at me – the pity and the knowing glances. He doesn’t know half so much as he thinks he does.”

“Then tell me.”

Jon looked at her incredulously. 

“I’m serious,” she told him, stepping closer and resting a hand on his arm. “You say he doesn’t know, so tell _me_. Help me to understand.”

For a long, long moment, Jon stared down at her. Sansa could see the war being waged inside his mind. Finally, he sighed and looked away. “I need time, Sansa. I will try, but I just need… time.”

It would be a lie to say she wasn’t disappointed, but Sansa schooled her face. “Okay.”

He turned his gaze back to her. “Okay?”

She nodded. “Take the time you need but know that I’m here and that I want to know. I want to help in any way I can.”

He watched her intensely for another long moment before nodding. 

Sansa dropped her hand from his arm with a sigh, steeling herself for what came next. “That is not the only way I wish to help you, Jon.”

“The lords,” he said darkly.

She nodded. “It is not just that they mistrust you. They plot against you.”

Rage flared in Jon’s face again. Sansa hastily reached for his hands, desperate to temper the fiery ice in his expression. “They mean to depose you and install me upon the throne – but I don’t want it.”

“It’s yours, Sansa. I don’t-”

“I don’t want it,” she told him firmly. “All I want is to go home. Robb named you, and you have proven yourself on the campaign.” Jon looked like he wanted to argue the point further but remained quiet. “Some of the lords, including your Hand, believe it would be prudent for us to wed. It would secure the throne, Winterfell, and the Stark name for you. Our children would be Starks and-”

“No, Sansa,” he growled, pulling away from her grasp. “You cannot be serious.”

“I know it is strange – us having been raised to believe we are siblings, but we aren’t, Jon. And we were never close.” Her face flushed in shame as she remembered how perfectly she’d pretended Jon didn’t exist as a child. “I always knew my marriage would be a political one,” she continued. “At least this way it furthers the Stark family, not anyone else's.”

“I’m a half-dead Targaryen bastard, Sansa,” Jon spit out. “You can’t possibly want this. You yourself said that I scare you – I won’t let you marry someone like me; _something_ like me.” Beside her bed Ghost stirred, rising to curl around Jon’s body protectively, no doubt roused by Jon’s evident irritation and distress. 

She pursed her lips in frustration and pulled her gaze away from the direwolf. “It’s the only way, Jon.”

“It isn’t. I’ll give you the crown, Sansa. It was never meant to be mine.”

“Gods, will you stop saying that!” Sansa hissed, her frustration finally spilling over. “_Robb named you. You are the king._”

“You won’t sacrifice yourself for me!”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “In marrying you I never have to fear leaving Winterfell again – I won’t be bartered off to some lord I’ve never met – I’ll never have to give up my Stark name. _I will be a queen._ Our union would protect me as much as it would protect you!”

Jon’s jaw was clenched again. His gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder and for a long moment, a heavy silence descended over them. “They’d expect heirs,” he finally said, voice low and gravelly in a way that made her shiver. 

“Not right away.”

His heavy gaze met her again. “And what if you found a man you loved – one who doesn’t try to kill you in his sleep.”

“I’m not the silly girl I once was, Jon. I’ve given up on love. It isn’t real. All that matters is securing our home and our family. And by the Light of the Seven, stop bringing up that night – I woke you from a night terror and you didn’t know where you were, that’s hardly the same as truly trying to kill me. Believe me, I am aware of the difference.”

Jon’s face clouded over at her words. “You have much to tell me too,” he whispered after a moment. “About where you have been; what has happened to you. About _Baelish_.”

Sansa swallowed and looked to the floor. “In time.”

Across from her, Jon sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Gods, what a bloody mess we are.”

It was impossible for her to suppress a smile. Despite the horror of their situation, it was hard not to find the absurdity of it somewhat ridiculous. Jon noticed her small grin, and to Sansa’s delight his own lips fell into a half smirk. She rather liked the way it made his eyes crinkle. “You always did want to marry a Targaryen prince.”

Sansa let out a huff of indignation, but a moment later her smile fell. “You can talk to me about that too, you know,” she told him gently. “I can’t imagine it was easy to hear.”

Jon’s lips thinned and once more he seemed to curl into himself. “No,” he muttered. “No, it was not.”

Slowly, Sansa took a step forward and grabbed his hand. “I don’t need your answer tonight, Jon, but please do think about it. We have so many enemies – we need to face them _together_. Like father always said, when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. We’re all that are left.”

“Aye,” Jon sighed, gripping her hands. “We can’t hide from each other, can we?”

A sudden fear seized around Sansa’s chest. She needed to tell him, she _knew_ she needed to tell him – so why couldn’t she? Why was it so hard to tell him of Littlefinger’s plotting? 

_Because that would mean telling him so much more,_ a voice whispered in her mind. _It would mean telling him what Baelish is – what he has done – what you have done. It would mean telling him about Harry and about Lysa and about Sweetrobin. It would men explaining what they did to you at King's Landing; what Petyr saved you from._

The last thing she needed was for Jon to fly into a rage, directing his ire at Baelish or the treasonous lords or at _her_. It would only feed the narrative that he was unhinged; that he was not fit to rule. And though it may be selfish, in that moment Sansa felt closer to Jon than she ever had – and certainly closer to _anyone_ than she had since she watched her father die. She didn’t want to lose that. She was so afraid of losing that. 

Sansa tugged at their joined hands until Jon was close enough she could break the contact and embrace him tightly, burrowing her face against his neck and breathing in his deep scent. Flooded by his warmth and the solid beat of his heart beneath her ear and the strength of the muscles in his arms, Sansa tried her hardest to ignore the guilt and fear boiling just beneath her skin. 

_I’ll tell you,_ she thought. _I will, but not tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look pals, I know y’all want Sansa to come clean – but stories need plots okay?


	12. xii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was absolutely not the chapter I had planned but then I woke up and started writing and this is what emerged???? I’m not mad about it though.

Sansa Stark had been scared many times in her life. 

There were the occasional nightmares she had as a child after one of Old Nan’s particularly colorful bedtime stories about the Night’s King or the Rat Cook or the wildlings who stole girl children from their beds. 

There was the time that Robb pulled her and Arya and Bran into the crypts of Winterfell only for Jon to pop out covered in flour and scare her half to death. 

There was that awful day by the Trident when Arya had hit Joffrey – and the awful moments that followed when she realized Lady was going to be killed. 

There was the day her father was arrested, which was also the day Arya went missing.

There was the day she watched her father’s head fall down the steps of Baelor’s Sept, his blood oozing in a sickening dark pool that had reminded her of the one in Winterfell's godswood. 

There was all of the horror that followed. 

The moment she saw three soldiers half carrying half dragging the King in the North from the battlefield was now added to that list. 

Jon’s side was drenched in blood, a steady trail of pink in the snow lingered behind him and the soldiers. He was pale in a way that reminded her of that prank in the crypts in the worst of ways, and his darks eyes seemed to move without seeing. Worst of all, though, was the frantic way Ghost danced around the soldiers – muzzle red with blood and fur mangled with mud and gore – nudging his master and tugging at the leather of the soldiers as if he could make them move faster. 

Sansa met the party as they reached the king’s tent, shouting hysterically about the need for a maester until Satin appeared seemingly out of nowhere and tugged her to his chest. 

“We’ve already sent for one, my lady, and for Val,” he told her soothingly, shushing her frantic calls and doing his best to calm her down. “Please, Lady Stark, be still.”

As if summoned by the utterance of her name, Val strode into the circle of tents. “Sansa – with me,” she barked, eyes hard and serious and she entered the king’s tent. 

Sansa pulled away from Satin, looking up at the pretty Oldtown man with wide eyes. “What – what does she want with-”

“Go,” he shrugged. “If she wants you there is a reason.” As she turned, he grabbed one of her shaking hands in his own. “My lady, please prepare yourself. I don’t know why Val wants you but I’m sure his wound is… just please prepare yourself.” His soft eyes were mournful and made something deep in Sansa curl with more fear. 

Keeping their hands entwined, she tugged Satin towards the tent. “Come with me,” she murmured. “Please.”

Grimacing, Satin hesitated a moment before nodding. 

The smell of blood inside the king’s tent was overwhelming. The great map on the war table had been swiftly discarded and Jon lay in its place. Val was already hovering above him, hands at work tugging Jon’s torn skin back together. Ghost huddled beneath the table, his red eyes watching Sansa’s approach. The sight of Jon's wound made Sansa's eyes widen and burn with tears. Fear clawed at her throat as if trying to strangle the life from her.

Val glanced up. “You know to sew and stitch?”

Sansa nodded dumbly, her eyes locked on Jon’s prone form. 

“There a needle and thread there at the end of the table and a basin of clean water over there. His shoulder is wounded as well but I need to close this one now or he’ll bleed out. Clean it with water, then with that wine over there. Make sure the arrowhead is out and then stitch him up.”

As if in a daze, Sansa moved towards the water. Satin caught her arm before she could get far. “Val,” he hissed. “Surely there are others who can do this. Lady Stark is-”

“This is for Lady Stark to do,” Val replied harshly. “She is not so delicate as to be a stranger to blood, are you, Sansa?”

“N-no,” Sansa murmured. She concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she carried the water towards the war table. “I am no stranger to blood.”

“Seven’s sake, Val – accustomed to blood or not she’s a _lady_ which may mean nothing north of the Wall but here-”

“She needs to see this!” Val barked. “She needs to know!”

“There are other ways for her to know!”

“Satin,” Sansa cut in, surprised by the strange calm that had come over her own voice. “Thank you, but I can do this.”

Pursing his pretty lips, Satin looked at Sansa a long moment before nodding. “I never doubted that you couldn’t, my lady.”

“Sansa, the wound,” Val muttered, drawing Sansa’s attention back to the task at hand. Gently, ignoring the way the smell of blood kept trying to tug her memories to Baelor’s Sept and the blistering sun of King’s Landing, she wiped at the blood on Jon’s shoulder. When it was cleared away enough for her to get a good look at the jagged wound – which, blessedly, did not appear to be deep – Sansa poured the wine. Her stomach clenched unpleasantly at the look of the dark liquid on Jon’s pale skin. She thought once more of the pool in the godswood.

“You’re doing well,” Val murmured, eyes fixed on the wound at Jon’s side. “Now the thread. It is just like your pretty embroidery – don’t pull too tight or leave it too loose.”

Sansa nodded, swallowing down resurfacing panic, and threaded the needle. She paused for a moment, looking down at the torn skin of Jon’s shoulder, preparing herself to let the metal of her needle bite through his flesh. A cold, wet nose pressed against Sansa’s arm as if in reassurance. Smiling weakly at Ghost, Sansa bent forward to her task. 

Just as she pulled the last stitch through, a portly man in maester’s robes burst into the tent. “The king?”

Val rolled her eyes, clipping the end of her thread and wiping the blood off her hands. “The work is done.”

The man’s face turned red. “You should have waited! What do you know of medicine, woman? I studied for year-”

“He would have died,” Sansa cut in. “You weren’t here and he would have died.”

The maester’s eyes widened as if he were seeing Sansa for the first time. “M-my lady? What are you doing here?” His gaze fell to her bloody hands and in a moment his face matched the color. He turned back to Val with a fury. “The Lady of Winterfell – the last of House Stark,” he blubbered until Sansa cut him off. 

“_You weren’t here and he would have died,_” she repeated, voice firm and hard. 

Val met her eye with a small smile before turning back to the infuriated maester. “You are not needed, I’ll go make a poultice for the wounds, and Lady Sansa will see that the blood and muck is cleaned from him.”

“That is hardly befitting a lady of her station! The mere fact she is here – the King is not fully clothed! And the blood – By the Seven, you wildlings, you _savages_-“

“Maester,” Sansa broke in. “I’m sure we have others who are wounded and in need of your care. Surely your valuable time would be better spent with them.”

The man stared at her with wide, angry eyes, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to speak but didn’t have the words. Satin huffed in annoyance from the seat he’d taken to the side of the tent. “Come Maester Dorryl,” he grunted, rising and grabbing the man by the arm. “I’ll escort you to the wounded.”

Sansa watched them leave with a discomforting anxiety bubbling in her belly. She knew that within minutes word would spread around camp that she had tended to the king’s wounds. It would give the wrong impression – would call her honor into question. What would Petyr think? Would he be proud or infuriated? 

“You did well,” Val told Sansa softly. She handed her a clean cloth and the basin of water. “Here, clean him off. I’ll go fetch the poultice and we’ll dress his wounds. Then he needs to rest a while.”

Sansa looked down to Jon’s dirty face, relaxed and soft in his unconsciousness. “Will he be okay? There was so much blood.” Without thinking, she smoothed his hair away from his forehead. 

“He’ll be okay.” When Sansa looked up, Val was watching her with a strange look. “You’ll be okay as well,” the wildling woman said in a gentle voice. 

Sansa pursed her lips. “As you said, I am no stranger to blood.”

“No,” Val sighed, looking back to Jon. “No woman is, I suppose.”

It was not just her moonblood she knew, Sansa wanted to say. It was her father's blood and Joffrey's blood and Ser Dontos' blood and so, so, so many others'. 

As Val left, Sansa turned back to Jon's form. Gently, she dipped the cloth in the water and began to wipe at his chest. It was not the first time she'd seen a man's naked chest, but it was the first time she'd seen Jon's. At least, the first time since they were children. Back then he hadn't had the black hair that covered his chest now - nor the matching trail that disappeared beneath his breeches and made her blush. Jon was well and truly a man now – not the boy she had known. The boy certainly hadn't been so muscled - or so scarred. The evidence of the long years Jon had spent training and in battle where evident across his torso, even when covered by his own blood. It seemed the blood was somehow stuck to his scars in a way that made no sense. Scrubbing slightly harder at a spot above his heart, Sansa gasped as a fresh well of red blood appeared. _Wounds_, she realized with a violent start. These were no scars - they were more _wounds_, half healed and deep and ugly, carving into his pale skin like the dark runes of the First Men that littered rocks in the north. 

Desperately, Sansa looked back to the tent flap, hoping to see Val. _There are more wounds_ she wanted to shout. Her hands began to shake in her panic and she wildly looked about for more needles and thread. It was then that her eyes caught on the wound on his neck - the one she had seen the night Ghost brought her to his bed. "Gods," she cursed. Had _nobody_ tended to it in all this time? It looked just as red and angry and half-healed as it had that night. Tears began to cloud her vision as she frantically tried to come up with a plan. There were at least seven more wounds on his chest - some mostly healed, some reopened, all looking far more dangerous than the ones she and Val had tended to. _How had Val missed these? Even beneath his blood?_

“There’s nothing to be done,” Jon’s low voice croaked, causing Sansa to jump. When she looked up to his face his dark, tired eyes were watching her closely. “They’ll never heal.”

Sansa’s teary gaze darted back down to the ugly half-healed wounds on his chest as a horrifying realization dawned on her. She felt sick. She felt so wretchedly, wretchedly sick. “This… this is where…”

“Yes,” Jon replied, his voice half a pained groan. “Val has tired everything. They won’t heal.” He brought a hand to his side to feel at his fresh wound, wincing in pain. 

“Don’t,” Sansa muttered, swatting his hand away. She was trying desperately to fight the tears in her eyes – desperately to not go further into a panic over the evidence of his unnatural death and unnatural life. It frightened her terribly, but she didn’t want him to see that. It had been one thing to be told that Jon had died. It was quite another to _see_ it. Clenching her jaw, Sansa dipped the cloth back in the water and continued to wipe the blood from him. She could feel Jon’s eyes on her but did not meet his gaze. 

“Why are you here?”

She was quiet a moment, stubbornly keeping her eyes off his and off his mortal wounds. “Val needed my help. She’s fetching a poultice then she’ll be back.”

He cursed lowly. “She shouldn’t have made you help.”

Sansa frowned. “She didn’t make me do anything. I chose to help.” She nodded to his shoulder. “I stitched your shoulder up.”

A silence fell over them then as Sansa wiped the last of his blood away, dropping the soiled cloth into the dark pink water. When she finally looked up to his face again, she frowned. She’d forgotten about the blood and mud there too. As she moved to fetch a clean cloth from the pile the maester had hastily dropped on a chair, she felt Jon’s gaze on her. 

“You scared me,” she murmured, pouring water from his jug over the cloth. “There was so much blood. It reminded me of…” she trailed off, stopping herself from speaking of those cursed steps of Baelor. _Gods_, why did he have to look so very much like father?

Jon frowned deeper as she approached him again. “Of?”

She shook her head and began to gently wipe the blood and mud from his face, the long fingers of her hand that wasn’t occupied by the cloth held his jaw in a soft caress. “Nothing,” she murmured. 

There was still a question in his dark eyes, but Jon let it rest. As she smoothed the wet cloth over his brow, he closed his eyes with a sigh. 

“Are you in much pain?”

“Yes,” he grunted; his eyes still closed. “But I’ve had worse.”

Sansa glanced back down to his chest and the ugly wounds that marred the solid muscle and smooth skin and coarse black hair. “Will you tell me about it someday?”

His eyes opened – as grey as a winter storm with the slightest hint of Valyrian violet. There was no question in them as to what she was asking. “Sansa,” Jon warned.

“Please,” she murmured, setting the cloth aside and brushing his tangled curls away from his face. “I want to know. I need to know.”

He grimaced and looked away. Before either of them could speak again Val emerged from the night. “Ah,” she smiled. “You are awake and alert, that’s good.”

Sansa involuntarily clenched her fingers into fists at the easy way Jon’s face broke into a small smile at the sight of the wildling. “I would thank you for your work, but I’ve been told it was your idea to bring Lady Stark into this,” he grumbled. 

Val came to stand beside Sansa at the table and slung an arm around her shoulders. “I needed help. You managed to make quite a mess of yourself, King Crow, and I have it on good authority the lady is an expert at needlework. Besides,” she added, pulling her arm from Sansa and beginning to apply the poultice. “I thought it was time Lady Stark see evidence of what she’s been told, given rumor has it you may share a wedding night and that hardly seemed like the appropriate time to pay witness to your death.”

Val’s eyes were fixed on Jon’s wounds for which Sansa was externally grateful. She could feel the redness of her blush at the mention of a wedding night. Her gut twisted with the casual way in which Val spoke of Jon’s death – as if it were as simple as stating his hair was dark shade of brown.

“There will be no wedding,” Jon muttered, his voice thick with pain at the pressure of Val’s fingers. 

Sansa’s eyes flew back to his face. His eyes were pinched closed in discomfort. 

“You told me you would consider it.”

Val shifted to the wound on his shoulder prompting another groan of pain. “I have considered it,” he bit out. “It isn’t right.”

The wildling’s eye flicked up to Sansa for a minute before landing back on the wound. Sansa opened her mouth to speak but Val beat her to it. “There, King Crow. Sansa, sweet, would you grab those bandages? I’ll leave you to wrap the wounds – like the stitching be sure they are not too tight but not too loose.”

Jon’s eye flew open. “You’re leaving?”

Sansa clenched her jaw and looked away. She felt ill between Jon’s wounds and his dismissal of their marriage and his clear affection for Val. 

“Believe it or not, _your Grace_, others were injured. Lady Stark is more than capable.” Val caught her eye and smiled warmly. “He doesn’t deserve you.” Then, without another word, she left the tent. Sansa’s eyes remained on the flap for a long moment. 

“I can do it myself,” Jon grunted, and the sound of pained shuffling told her he was trying to move. In an instant, she whipped around and firmly, but gently, push his shoulders back to the hard wood of the table. 

“Stop,” she muttered, hoping the hurt in her voice was not evident. “You’ll only make it worse.”

With a frustrated and pained huff, Jon let himself be held down. He determinedly looked anywhere other than her eyes. Swallowing thickly, Sansa reached for the bandages. “You’ll need to sit up,” she whispered. “I’ll help you.” 

A sudden thick and awkward tension had fallen over them, and Sansa wanted nothing more than to bolt from the tent. But Jon was injured, and Val was gone, and it was up to her to help him. “Here,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around him gently and pulling him to a sitting position. They had to pause a couple times as Jon let out a pained groan, his breathing heavy with hurt, and Sansa did her best to ignore how warm and soft the skin of his bare back felt beneath her fingers. 

Once he was seated, she began to pull apart the bandages. With a frown, Sansa realized the intimacy her task would require – the close proximity was nothing more than it had been when she’d helped him don his armor before, but now with his naked skin bared to her it felt altogether different. She bit her lip and nudged at his knee with her hip. “It’ll be easiest if I stand between your legs,” she murmured, pointedly looking at the bandages and not his chest and not his face. If possible, the heavy tension in the room felt suddenly so much thicker. Jon cleared his throat and parted his legs wide enough to allow her body between. She watched as his hands clenched at the wooden edges of the table, tightening until his bruised knuckles turned white. She frowned, imagining he must be in quite a deal of pain. 

Slowly, Sansa began to wrap the bandage first around the wound at his side, fingers gentle and deft in their tasks. The nature and location of the wound demanded she lean so close she could smell the sweat and blood on his skin as she wrapped the bandage – and by necessity her arms – around his lean, muscular waist. She was so close that his warm breath tickled the hair that had come loose from her braid. Despite the warmth of it on the skin of her exposed neck and shoulder, a shiver ran down her back. 

It was only worse once she moved to his shoulder and she came so near to him at one point that his beard tickled the skin of her cheek. The air seemed to crackle with the tension between them and it made her want to yell at him – or hit him maybe. _Anything_ to break this awkwardness that had fallen. 

“You’re wrong,” she finally muttered as she tied off the bandages. “There is nothing _not right_ about a marriage between us.”

She watched as the muscle in his shoulder flexed and tensed. “I’m not discussing this now, Sansa.” His voice was weary with exhaustion and pain and a hint of irritation. 

With a frustrated scoff she finally stepped out of his space and the cradle of his hips, dropping the spare bandages on the table. Face set in a grimace, Sansa turned back and grabbed Jon’s arms, helping him down from the table. The instant his weight shifted to his feet, the king’s face twisted in pain and he fell against her side. If not for Ghost’s presence at her side, Sansa would have fallen from the sudden force of Jon’s weight. 

“’m sorry,” he moaned. 

Sansa shushed him. “Let’s get you to bed,” she murmured softly. Between Ghost and her efforts, they managed to hobble Jon over to his furs where another problem presented itself. 

“Your breeches,” Sansa blushed. “They’re caked in blood and dirt.”

Jon shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. I just cleaned your wounds; I won’t have you getting muck in them and dying of an infection.” She bent down and pulled off his boots one by one. 

“Sansa-”

“Shut up, Jon.” 

Exhaustion was plainly setting into his body as he slumped against the bed, face contorted in a mixture of pain and weariness and embarrassment. When her hands moved to the ties of his breeches his hand shot out to stop her, but in his weakened state she easily shoved it away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa muttered, even as her face turned red with embarrassment. Jon turned away, face clouded in shame, as she carefully undid the ties – trying her hardest not to touch _anything_. She pursed her lips as she pulled his breeches down his legs, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the old gods and the new that unlike Harry he wore small clothes under his breeches. 

“There,” she murmured, tossing the ruined pants to the floor. Jon was already shoving himself back away from her, pulling his furs over his exposed body. Reaching out, Sansa helped him as Ghost jumped up and settled at Jon’s side with a contented sigh. Within seconds Jon’s eyes were closing as his breath evening out. After throwing another log in the brazier, Sansa dragged a chair closer to his bed and began to unfurl and fix her now messy braid. Somewhere in her mind she knew she should return to her tent – it was scandalous enough she’d helped him through his injury, but to linger – even if rumors were spreading of a possible marriage – was a stain to her virtue. 

She looked to Jon, his face finally peaceful. 

Gods be damned, her virtue was in shatters anyways, even if none alive other than Petyr knew it. 

“Val is right,” Jon muttered, just before he slipped into sleep. “I don’t deserve you.”

Sansa frowned and brushed curls from his forehead as she began her vigil for the night. 

“No,” she murmured though he was beyond hearing. “It is I who doesn’t deserve you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long this is going to be - I don't have it mapped out other than key plot points I'm working towards, but I feel like it could go on for a while. So please settle into a nice, slow burn. 
> 
> (Thanks as always for your love and support, just because I don't reply to every comment doesn't mean I don't read and appreciate each and every one. I just tend to reply to ones with questions or clarifications!)


	13. xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. We love some good tension, don’t we?

Sansa wasn’t at all surprised when Baelish found her the next day and requested a private word. Face twisting in a false smile, she followed Petyr to his tent silently wishing Ghost were with her if only to provide some comfort. 

If only to make Petyr feel more on edge. 

He poured her a glass of wine as they sat at his small camp table, all the while watching her with her knowing eyes. “I’m told that you spent yet another night with the king.”

Sansa scoffed. “I tended his wounds. It was hardly a night of passion, Lord Baelish.”

He sat and looked at her for a long moment, eyes deep and intense on her own. It made her want to squirm under their weight; it made her feel like a bird in a cage once more. “And can we expect a night of passion soon?” He finally asked with a smirk that made her skin crawl. “Winterfell is not far now, sweetling.”

“The king is injured – we’ll be delayed as he heals-” 

“Sansa, my sweet, stupid, girl. Do you realize how much I have risked securing you the favor of your lords? How long I have labored to secure your throne? And all that I’ve asked in return is this one, small thing.”

“He has refused. I’m working on changing his mind but-”

“You are a beauty, like your mother. I have taught you to use that beauty – to harness it as the weapon it is. For all his faults your cousin is still a man, is he not?”

She frowned and looked away. 

Baelish chuckled and sipped at his wine. “Oh please, sweetling. Cut the septa act.” He stood and walked to stand before her, smoothing a bony finger over her tense jawline. “We both know what you are capable of and I’m growing rather tired of your lack of progress.” Suddenly his grip was too tight, his nails digging into the soft flesh under the curve of her jaw. Sansa winced and tried to pull away, but he kept his grip firm. Leaning down, Baelish whispered his next words against her mouth causing Sansa’s stomach to roil in panic and revulsion. “I will make you a queen one way or another, Sansa. But it is in your best interest to do what I tell you. When have I ever steered you wrong, my sweet? Marry the bastard, make him your own, and your reign will be all the smoother for it. Winterfell and the north will be ours.”

She squeezed her eyes shut as he pressed a dry kiss to her lips. Even as he pulled away the grip on her jaw got tighter. “You’re no septa,” he warned. “And I’m not a patient man. The lords are not patient either. In fact, some are rather concerned that you won’t have the nerve to _remove_ him once the time comes.”

Sansa could feel the blood drain from her face. “Me?”

“Well that would be easiest, wouldn’t it? He trusts you – and few can get closer to a king than his wife. I admit, poison is an ugly means, but it is the most efficient manner of tying up a loose end.”

Her nails dug into the wood of her seat as visions of Joffrey gasping for breath and tearing at his throat infected her mind. As if sensing her thoughts, Baelish chuckled again. “It won’t be the first time you slay a beast, will it?”

“I didn’t kill Joffrey,” she murmured, eyes on her wine. 

“But you did, sweetling. Just as much as you killed that unbearable aunt of yours and your pathetic cousin. Just as much as you killed your father when you ran to Cersei like the little fool you were before you knew me.”

Her throat tightened as guilt welled in her as deep as the pool in Winterfell’s godswood. She wanted to argue with him – wanted to prove him wrong. But how could she? He was right. She’d had a hand in all of it whether or not she’d known it at the time. There was blood on her hands already. 

_But not Jon’s,_ she thought to herself. _Never Jon’s._

Baelish took his seat once more and finished his wine. “Seduce him, Sansa. Make him want you. He is a base man with both a bastard’s lust and Targaryen blood. Whatever excuses he has given you are words in the wind. I promise you he is just as depraved as the lords say – and though it pains me to throw you into his furs, for truly, my sweet, you deserve more than that filth – this is how you win the game. Don’t fail me.”

Swallowing her shame and her anger and her boiling hatred, Sansa forced a sweet, docile smile onto her face. “Never, Lord Baelish. I'd never so much as dream about it.”

* * * * * 

After leaving Petyr’s tent, Sansa was in a foul mood. She stalked back across camp, mind lost in the hazy swirl of her own guilt and years upon years of resentment for the man who had saved her from the lion’s den. Sansa was so lost in her own thoughts that the moment a grubby little hand reach out and grabbed her skirts, Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin. 

The little girl stepped back, eyes wide in fright. She couldn’t be more than Bran’s age when they all had left Winterfell. “I’m sorry,” the child stammered. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Sansa let her face soften as she crouched down to meet the girl’s eye. Her cloths were dirty but looked warm at least. It was plainly evident the child was a wildling – there were few if any Westerosi children traveling with the army. Sansa had quickly learned that the wildlings that marched with Jon traveled with their whole family in tow. She’d thought at first that it was due to the threat beyond the Wall she kept hearing murmurs about – though she was rather convinced the vague rumors she’d heard about Others and wights surely had to be exaggerated. Val had corrected her assumption however, telling her that it was typical for families to follow their men – or even women – to war. 

“What can I help you with?” Sansa asked the girl. 

The child smiled shyly and began to pull her at her mud-brown curls. With a pang of mourning Sansa thought of Arya. 

“You’re kissed by fire,” the girl said. “Your hair is lucky.”

It wasn’t the first time Sansa had been told that by a wildling in camp. “Thank you. What is your name?”

“Kya. Can I touch your hair?”

Smiling a little wider, Sansa bent her head forward. Kya touched her braids almost reverently. “My name is Sansa,” she told the girl. 

“I know. You’re the queen.” 

Sansa frowned. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, but I’m not a queen.”

“Mama says you’re the queen. So does Della and Jora,” Kya shrugged. “King Crow stole you from the Mockingbird. Will you braid my hair like this? Mama says there is no time to braid my hair, but I’ve watched you and your hair is always so pretty. Mama says it’s silly to like something because it is pretty, but I want to be like you with your pretty hair and your pretty dresses. I told Mama it isn’t silly because if you are the queen and you like pretty things then pretty things can’t be silly.”

Still uncomfortable from the implication that Val and Tormund’s people viewed her as Jon’s queen – although that was, objectively, her goal – Sansa nodded. “Let’s sit over there on those logs.” Kya skipped ahead, eager and excited, while Sansa pursed her lips. It was strange to see a girl that reminded her of Arya outwardly be so intrigued by the things Sansa loved as a girl. Before long, Kya was babbling on about the politics of childhood as Sansa did her best to untangle the girl’s curls and work them into braids. The distraction of it all was nice and reminded Sansa of easier times when she and Jeyne would spend hours trying to pull each other’s hair into southern fashions while gossiping about their tiny world inside the walls of Winterfell. 

“Well, isn’t this a sight.” 

Sansa frowned at the familiar voice, gazing up to find Lord Dormund standing above her. Without warning his jape at Val came roaring into her ears – his implication about the wildling woman and Jon – and the memory made her chest feel too tight. 

“Lord Dormund, how are you?”

“I am well, Lady Stark. And you?”

“Well,” she replied tersely, finishing off the last of Kya’s braids. “There you are, sweetling,” she said. The girl felt the braids with her little fingers, a wide, exuberant smile on her face. “Thank you!” she cried, wrapping Sansa in a hug before skipping off no doubt to find the friends Sansa had spent the last half hour hearing all about. With a sigh, Sansa rose from the log, begrudgingly taking Lord Dormund’s offered hand. She dropped it as soon as she stood. 

“It is nice to see you playing the peacemaker with the wildlings,” Dormund smiled. It was a pleasant smile, open and bright. 

Sansa nodded, looking towards where Kya had run off. 

“I was hoping I might take a walk with you, my lady? Just around camp?”

Nodding again, Sansa took his offered arm. For a while, the young lord peppered her with questions about how she was settling into camp life and shared stories about his experiences in the war. It was pleasant and simple and what Sansa would have dreamed of once, but more and more she found her gaze wandering around the bustling camp, looking for a familiar dark, imposing figure. 

“I’ve heard quite the rumor about you, my lady.”

Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest as she quickly turned her attention back to the conversation at hand. “A rumor?”

There was no way he knew about Harry – no, surely Petyr wouldn’t have said anything and though Harry was known to boast nobody would believe him. Certainly not enough to send word north from the Vale to the son of a lesser northern lord. 

Dormund’s grin suddenly turned rather serious, transforming his face in its gravity. “I have heard from no less than seven different people that we can soon expect a royal wedding. The king means to make you his bride so as to secure the Stark name and Winterfell for himself.” 

The relief that spread through Sansa was short lived. “Well, when you put it that way, my lord, the king sounds rather dastardly.” 

Lord Dormund scoffed bitterly. “Good. That was my intention.”

Frowning, Sansa stopped, pulling the young lord to a stop with her by their linked arms. “The suggestion has been floated, but it did not come from his Grace. It has been recommended by many of the principle lords. This is no great scheme of his.”

He eyed her carefully for a moment and Sansa cursed herself for never determining whether or not he was known to Baelish after their first meeting. 

“Gently lady, I don’t mean to frighten you, but please let me speak plainly. The last time we spoke, we discussed the king’s lack of sparring partners due to his ferocity. You have seen his behavior on display these past weeks, and I’m sure you have heard some of the rumors.” Dormund grabbed Sansa’s hand and held it between his own. “You are so young, my lady, and delicate. You’ve been through much. I know you were raised with the king, but surely you see him for what he is now. I must beg you to not go through with this marriage.”

Sansa pulled her hand out of his grasp. “You presume much, my lord,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. Young she might be, but delicate she was not. The south had beaten that out of her.

“I meant no offense. The man is an animal, my lady. You deserve better”

Deep in her heart, Sansa knew Dormund's warning came with good intention. Noble intention even. In fact, in another world she would consider his warning rather gallant. But here, in this camp and this world where everything and everyone she’d ever loved had been ripped from her arms, Sansa no longer placed gallantry over loyalty to her blood. She’d done that as a girl – placed the romance of the south over the steady familiarity of the north – and paid too great a price. Winter was here and Sansa knew where she belonged now. 

“I thank you for your concern, my lord. No marriage has been decided. I feel it is my duty, however, to remind you that man is your king not an _animal_.”

“The north once knew no kings but the those named Stark.”

“Then perhaps the north should look more fondly upon the possibility of my giving the name Stark to the king.”

Dormund frowned deeply, his jaw tense and locked. “There are many others who could take the name,” he said slowly. “Those who would forsake their own.”

“For what? What use would another Stark be when there is already a king? My lord, you are dangerously close to suggesting treason if I am understanding you implication correctly.”

Eyes narrowed, Dormund opened his mouth to speak but suddenly closed it, body tensed even more than before. His gaze fell over her shoulder, eyes narrowed and cold. With a puzzled frown, Sansa followed the path of his eyes. 

A distance away she saw Jon turning from them, leading his horse in the opposite direction, but she’d caught him just in time to see the thunderous look on his face aimed directly at her and Lord Dormund. A moment later, Ghost came loping towards them, curling around Sansa in a way that felt positively possessive. The lord before her seemed to think the same thing as he gazed at the wolf with plain disgust on his face. 

It made her heart harden a little more towards him, despite the goodwill she knew he believed he was extending. 

“I thank you for your concern, my lord,” Sansa told him, her fingers melting into the warmth of Ghost’s fur as the wolf nuzzled at her shoulder affectionally. “I will take your advice to heart.”

“I hope you do, Lady Stark,” he muttered, eyes still on the hulking direwolf. “I hope you do.”

* * * * * 

“Corn! Corn, corn corn!”

Sansa looked up from where she was brushing out her mare’s mane at the screeching of Jon’s raven. His familiar figure, clad all in black as per usual, was stalking towards her and Sansa couldn’t help but smirk when the king gruffly shoved the raven off his shoulder only for it to land on the other one. It was a somewhat familiar scene by this point, but affection welled in her all the same. 

“You should be resting, your Grace,” Sansa told him. She reached out to greet Ghost with scratch behind his ears. “If you walk and ride too much, you’ll open your stitches.”

“I can’t lay in bed all day.”

Sansa turned back to her mare, soothing the animal that had begun to get antsy in the presence of their new company. “You’re a king, you can do whatever you like.”

“That’d make me a piss poor king.” 

Sansa looked up with a smile at his reddening face. “I… excuse me, my lady. I didn’t mean to-”

She laughed quietly and shook her head. “As I’ve told you, _your Grace._ I’ve heard worse.” 

Focusing on her task again, Sansa waited for him to explain his presence. It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcome – it was just rare for Jon to seek her out like this. When a long moment had passed in silence, Sansa looked up again through her lashes. Jon was petting Ghost, his face drawn together as if lost in thought. 

“Can I help you with something?”

Jon’s eyes met her own. He cleared his throat. “I realized I didn’t thank you the other day. For your help with my injuries.”

“Oh.” Sansa smoothed a hand down her horse’s neck and set the brush aside. “There’s no need to thank me.”

“There is – you… Val said you were a great help.” 

She tried to ignore the way her stomach twisted at his words. She hadn’t spoken to Jon since that night and had only seen him the day before yesterday when she’d been with Lord Dormund. Apparently, Val had been blessed with an actual conversation already. “Did she?” Sansa replied primly, wishing she hadn’t set her horse brush aside. 

“I’m sorry that you had to see my wounds. The old ones.”

She focused her attention on smoothing down her mare’s mane. “Don’t apologize for that.” Sansa sighed and finally met his eyes again. “I don’t want you to hide from me. I’m glad I saw the wounds. Not that they are there – but that I know about them.”

Jon nodded, face in that familiar frown, and shifted his gaze to the gathered tents and cookfires around them. “I saw you speaking with Lord Dormund the other day,” he said. 

Sansa swallowed thickly. She didn’t know how to respond so she simply didn’t. 

“You seemed… friendly.”

“It was only the second time I’ve spoken with him. We are little more than acquaintances.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to defend herself – maybe it was the content of her conversation with Dormund, but Jon didn’t know about that. He’d seen them from a distance. Besides, Dormund’s concerns had been nothing more than what Jon himself had raised. Even so, it oddly felt like she’d betrayed him. 

“I’ve been told he is rather smitten.” Jon’s voice was gruff now, heavy with some thick emotion that made his brogue deeper. Something swooped low in her belly when his eyes met hers again. “Perhaps that would be a better match for you.”

It felt as if his wintery grey eyes were boring into her – seeing right past her skin and into the depth of her heart. She clenched her jaw, suddenly unbearably uncomfortable. “I have made where my interest in marriage lie rather clear, I think.”

Jon pursed his lips. 

“He is a vain man. I saw that the first time we met one another,” Sansa continued, turning back to her horse. “If I have learned anything in our years apart it is to read a man rather quickly. I can’t afford to suffer another Joffrey, so I made my judgments fast.”

“Sansa-”

“What a man is isn't what makes him a monster, Jon. It is in how he acts; how he carries himself.” She sighed and turned back to him. “He is not a bad man, Dormund. But he is not man I would like to marry, whatever _his_ intentions may be.” After a pause she added, “In truth, he warned me against marrying you.”

Jon paled slightly, his gaze falling to the snowy ground. 

“And yet I am undeterred. As I’ve told you, it makes the most sense. Politically, it is the solution to both of our problems.”

“Dormund is an ass,” Jon finally said roughly. “I’m glad that you see him for what he is.”

“And you? Do you see him for what he is?”

Jon looked up at her, brows drawn in question. “I called him an ass, did I not?”

She huffed with a mix of amusement and frustration. “He is a threat, Jon. A warning. Your lords don’t trust you and if they don’t trust you, they will seek to undermine you.”

“As I've told you before, this isn’t news to me.”

“No, it isn’t. But it is yet another sign that _something_ has to change. I don’t want to marry Lord Dormund. I don’t want to be Lady Dormund. I am quite fond of the name Stark, and I know you are as well.” 

Without another word, she pushed past him and let herself get lost in the bustle of camp, all the while ignoring the piercing heat of his gaze on her back. 

* * * * * 

With a roar of frustration, Jon slammed his fist on the table scattering the wooden blocks representing their forces and those of their enemies. 

He had summoned a council meeting that morning to determine their next steps in the campaign, and to Sansa’s surprise, Satin had called on her to attend. “His Grace asked,” the man had told her with a shrug. “He values your advice.”

And as per usual, the meeting had descended into a stalemate between Jon, his perpetually aggressively bad moods, and the lords who questioned his every step and every move – most of them having secured their loyalty to her rather than Jon through Baelish. 

Tonight, the honor of being the center of Jon’s black wrath fell on Lord Liddle. And a black wrath it was. Jon looked positively feral by the light of the brazier. 

Lord Reed grabbed her arm loosely when she took a step forward. “My lady-”

Sansa tugged away from his hands and moved to the war table, doing her best to ignore the concerned stares of the advisors and lords in the tent, some of whom went to so far as to step forward as if to stop her movement. Wrapping her hand around Jon’s arm, she tried to tug his attention towards her. “Your Grace.”

“This doesn’t concern you!” Jon growled without breaking eye contact with Lord Liddle. The lord’s eyes were darting between Jon and Sansa with a look of panic. 

“Your wounds, your Grace. You’ll open them.” 

“Damn my wounds!”

Sansa tightened her grip on his arm, digging her nails into the soft wool. “The longer it takes your wounds to heal, the longer it will be until you can properly fight. The longer it will be until we can make progress towards our home.” She snuck a glance at Lord Liddle, eyes wide and imploring. He was Baelish’s man, and she prayed to any god that would listen he would interpret the look in the way she intended. _This quarrel is not worth it,_ she tried to convey with her eyes. _You know the plan. Baelish’s plan._

Lord Liddle gritted his teeth. “Your Grace,” he began, but was immediately cut off by Jon. 

“Leave!” the king barked. “All of you. We’ll continue this discussion in the morning.” 

Sansa watched them file out, sending Jon and each other wary glances, sending her concerned and confused looks. With a sigh, she released Jon's arm but a moment later, Jon’s large hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Wait.”

Stomach twisting with nerves, Sansa turned around. Jon’s face was still clouded in anger. She had the sudden, strange urge to smooth away the hard set of his frown with her thumb on his lips, but kept her hands firmly distant from his face and looked away instead. “You were wrong,” she murmured, avoiding his eyes. “This _does_ concern me. Is it not my home we fight for too? Are my life and successes not tied up with your life and successes now? The effects of your behavior and your wounds are my concern.” 

“Don’t question me before the lords again.”

Her eyes flew to his face, suddenly narrowed in anger. “I beg your pardon?”

Jon’s hand tightened on her arm. “I offered you the crown, you refused it. Don’t question me before the lords again – it only serves to undermine my authority. They are mutinous enough already without –“

She scoffed and ripped her arm from his grasp. “It is hardly my attempt to diffuse the situation that have the lords at your throat, _your Grace_,” she spat. “Maybe if you did not threaten and belittle them with every breath, you’d find them more amenable to your whims.”

“My _whims_?” Jon growled, taking a step further into her space. The action forced her to crane her neck upwards to meet his eye. _Gods, the years had made him tall. As tall as Father had been._ “These are not _whims, Lady Stark._ They are battle plans and war strategy.”

“And you believe it is better to inspire fear than love in your people? You think that will aid in your battle plans and war strategy? _Look around you, Jon._ You cannot isolate yourself in the way you do – you need the allegiance of the lords – of lords like Liddle – if you ever hope to succeed in this!”

Jon’s face curled in a furious snarl. “Please teach me how to lead men then, Lady Stark. Clearly your years being kept in the Red Keep and the Eyrie taught you far more than my tenure as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Your tenure as Lord Commander saw you killed by your own men!”

His face darkened in a way that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. Without thinking, she took a step back. He followed. Fear twisted in her belly – fear and something akin to hunger. Hunger for what, Sansa could not say. 

“Aye,” Jon said in a dark voice, towering over her in the gloom of the tent. “Aye, my tenure saw me killed by my own men because I intended to leave to fight for Arya – for Winterfell. I died for our home once, for our sister once, and will gladly do so again if that is what it takes-”

Sansa was just as surprised by the slap as Jon appeared to be. Her hand stung when she pulled it back to her side and an angry red welt was already coloring the skin of Jon’s cheek. A heavy silence fell over them as Sansa stared up at her brother – her cousin – with wide eyes. She expected anger. She expected bitterness. She expected the fury she’d seen unleashed on countless others. What she didn’t expect was for the king’s eyes to dart down to her lips and to linger there for a heartbeat longer than what felt appropriate. “Sansa,” his voice rumbled lowly – a warning, but of _what_ she didn’t know. 

“You will not leave me,” she hissed, voice punctuated by emotion. Her hands flew to his chest, digging into the leather that secured his cloak, pulling him dreadfully closer to her. “_You will not leave me_. You will not die. I will not be left all alone in the world again, do you hear me, Jon Snow?” 

Jon’s hands were suddenly at her hips, the fabric of her gown bunching in his fists, and the tent seemed impossibly smaller, impossibly darker. The world had been narrowed down to the space between their bodies and Sansa’s heart beat out a hard, steady rhythm beneath her breast. Her world was Jon – his scent, the heavy heat of his gaze, the warmth of his hands on her, the slight give of his leather beneath her fingers. 

“You will see these fresh wounds healed,” she continued, voice suddenly thick and clumsy. “You will have patience with your lords. You will win us back our home. And you will _not_ die again.” She watched as he swallowed, tracking the bob of his adam’s apple with her eyes. “Seven help me, Jon, if you leave me alone in this world, I will bring you back to life myself if only to send you to hell once more. Winter is here and I will not be a wolf without a pack.”

His fingers tightened in her gown, pulling the fabric more tautly across her body. “You would command your king?” The hard gravel of his northern brogue made something in her stretch tauter than the wool around her waist. Like an arrow poised at the bow. 

“I would advise my king,” she whispered in reply, near breathless as her eyes dropped to his lips. “You did summon me here as an advisor, did you not?” A chill ran through her when he wet his lips. When he moved so close she could see a few silver hairs hidden in the near black of his beard. “You must do more to contain the wolf in you, Jon.”

As if an icy wave had crashed over them, Jon pulled away from her in an instant. The room was back – the world was no longer Jon – and Sansa found herself breathing hard despite not having moved in any exertion. Sansa’s fingers curled into her skirts as if seeking to replace the purchase she’d had on Jon’s leather. “Go,” the king hissed, turning his back to her. “And don’t undermine me again.” 

“Of course, your Grace,” she spat, anger suddenly returned to her heart with a vengeance. “How silly of me to think to question my king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fans self as I plan out how this wedding night is eventually gonna go now that I've determined Jon has a thing for Sansa taking charge* 
> 
> Also, I have FINALLY done some basic planning and I can tell you with an 80% sense of certainty that they will reach Winterfell in four chapters. Big things happening next chapter, bigger things happening the chapter after that, then even bigger things, then more big things. Basically if you've been feeling like this is filler stuff that's gonna end soon. It's just been important to me to really build up a solid foundation to their relationship/interactions.


	14. xiv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm already updating because soft Jonsa is my passion project 
> 
> This chapter is so ~*soft*~ so ~*tender*~ because that is what Sansa Stark deserves (along with the world because she 100% deserves the world). I hope you like it.

“Val?”

The wildling woman hummed from where she sat across from Sansa, crushing healing herbs into a poultice with a stone pestle. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Val looked up with a smile. “Of course you can.”

Sansa hesitated a moment, rubbing her palms together nervously. She resolutely stared at the abandoned embroidery in front of her rather than her friend. “Does… Well, um… Do the wild – the free folk – think that Jon and I are married?”

She cast an anxious glance up at the blonde. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. Val’s smile was a little wider than it had been before. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Sansa was too stunned to reply for a moment. “But – how?”

Val pushed her mortar and pestle aside. “Among our people when a man wants a woman, he steals her. If she lets him take her then she’s his woman.”

“Steal? But Jon didn’t steal me,” Sansa frowned, remembering Kya’s words about Jon stealing her from Petyr. 

Her friend smiled gently. “But he did. It doesn’t need to be so obvious as taking a woman from her father’s tent in the night. When you first came here the Mockingbird tried to take you back to his camp, but Jon refused.” Val shrugged. “The fact you stayed in his camp instead of enough.”

“That is _hardly_ enough to warrant a marriage.”

Val laughed. “Perhaps not, but we’re quite fond of King Crow and as soon as one person got the idea to spread that he had stolen you – a pretty kneeler kissed by fire, and the daughter of a Stark lord no less? Well it was hard to stop the rumor.”

Sansa bit her lip. “Does it… Does it bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” Val asked. She seemed genuinely confused by the question. 

Sansa felt a blush spreading on her cheeks. “I… no reason.” She looked down at her hands.

“Does it bother you?”

“I…” Sansa floundered for words. No, it didn’t bother her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it should. She was still furious with Jon from the night before – from how flippantly he discussed death and how dismissive he was of her attempts to help him. She didn’t like the idea of anyone _stealing_ her either. And yet, something warm spread from her toes to her ears at the idea that half the camp already assumed she and Jon were married. Sansa cleared her throat. “I’m glad that he is so loved by the free folk.”

Val smirked and gave her a funny look. “He certainly had to earn it. After he betrayed us and warned his crows of our attack on the Wall nearly every man, woman, and child was hungry for his blood.”

By now Sansa had heard the story, though never from Jon’s lips. As if summoned by their conversation, Ghost’s hulking form slipped into the tent and settled by Sansa’s side. Val’s smirk only grew larger. “He likes you,” she said, nodding to the wolf and Sansa’s fingers melted into his warm fur. For some reason the comment made Sansa blush. 

“I know Jon let your people south of the Wall, but how did he earn their trust and loyalty after so provoking their ire?”

Val’s eyes left Ghost and found Sansa’s. “He treated us with respect when few others did. He took our concerns and our culture seriously. It was slow, but overtime he showed his true character.”

Sansa pursed her lips, her mind wandering to how she could apply the same tactics here in camp; eventually in Winterfell. It wasn’t enough for her and Jon to marry, they needed to start rebuilding trust among the lords who were ready to mutiny. If Jon had been able to win the wildlings back over despite having crossed them – despite being Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and a Stark – then there was hope for him yet. _If only he would heed my advice._

Ghost sighed heavily and dropped his head into Sansa’s lap. She let her fingers comb through his shaggy fur.

“He’s a good man,” Val said softly, causing Sansa to look up again. The wildling woman had begun to crush herbs once more. “He’s a little lost right now, but his heart is still in the right place.”

Sansa thought back to the night before and let a wave of irritation roll over her. “I’m tired of making excuses for his behavior.”

Val paused her work again and sighed. “He’s stubborn as a mammoth, that man. I’m not asking you to excuse him, just to have patience.”

“My patience is running thin.”

“You scare him, Sansa.”

Sansa’s eyes flew up from Ghost. “What?”

“You scare him,” Val repeated, her smile a little sad now. “He’s been coping with this all by pushing everyone away. Even Tormund, Satin, Howland, and I give him his space. But you’re different. He isn’t able to push you away with his anger or even with the truth, and that scares him.”

“Why on earth would that scare him? Shouldn’t he want companionship? Someone who trusts him?”

Val nodded. “He does want that, I think, but that also makes him vulnerable. It opens him up to rejection. When others challenge him, he gives into his anger because he doesn’t care about their opinion of him. He cares about your opinion of him, though, and doesn’t know how to act around you. The fact he cares about you and you care about him is what scares him.” She reached out and pulled one of Sansa’s hands into her own. “Keep pushing him, Sansa. Whether or not you realize it, your stubbornness is bringing him back little by little.”

Sansa stayed quiet, burning with the desire to yell that she felt like barely any progress had been made with Jon – that she was tired of having patience with him – that he never told _her_ anything. If he did care for her, then he had an odd way of showing it. 

Ghost seemed to sense her frustration and nuzzle into her leg. “You all care for him though,” she muttered. “He isn’t scared of you?”

Val laughed. “We aren’t Sansa Stark. You’re quite a force whether you recognize it or not. Approaching him last night when he was in such a mood? I think that’s the first time someone’s attempted that and not ended up with a bloody nose or bruised ego. He can’t get rid of you and he knows it.” 

Sansa frowned and picked up her embroidery again, lost in thought. 

* * * * * 

A very uncomfortable looking Jon Snow was sitting in her tent when she returned that afternoon. It took quite a bit of willpower for Sansa to not roll her eyes at him. If anything, her conversation with Val had only deepened the residual anger from the night before. 

“Sansa,” Jon started, rising from his seat as Ghost left Sansa’s side to sit near his master. 

_He cares about your opinion of him and doesn’t know how to act around you._

She held up a hand. “Don’t, Jon. I don’t want to hear it. I need space.”

A pained look crossed his face. “I was out of line last night. I never… I shouldn’t have spoken to you so harshly.”

Settling her hands on her hips, Sansa huffed out a harsh breath in exasperation. “I wasn’t trying to undermine you. I was trying to help you diffuse the situation. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that you are making a grave mistake with your treatment of the lords.” Jon opened his mouth to respond but Sansa cut him off. “Spare me another excuse. I know it is hard – that you have to fight your… your instincts. But Jon, understand that your battle is not just on the field. It is here in camp as well. And it is not with me.”

He pursed his lips and Sansa was struck with a different memory from the night before; with the way he’d licked those lips while staring at her own; the way her world narrowed down to him for the briefest moment. She blushed and looked away, busying her hands with tidying up her few possessions. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon finally said, his voice low and broken. “I’m sorry, Sansa.”

She turned back to see him staring sullenly at his hands, jaw tight and eyes downcast. Pushing her anger aside, Sansa sighed and moved towards him and took his hands in her own. For once they weren’t gloved and the roughness of them – the callouses from his sword and the burns stretching across his right hand – seemed to ground her. After a moment, his hands tightened around her own. “You once told me you don’t know about to be around me,” she murmured, remembering a conversation in the woods that felt like it happened eons ago. “Just be you, Jon. And don’t push me away. I’m not going to be scared away no matter how much you push, and I’m not going to reject you for who you are now. All I want is to help you.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumbs brushing against the skin of her hands in a gentle pattern. “I know. I suppose I’m just not use to that. But like you said, we need to face our enemies together. We can’t hide from each other,” he sighed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you when I spoke of dying for Winterfell.” His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it before. Sansa looked up from their joined hands and into his stormy eyes. 

“I’m so scared of losing this war, Sansa. Of not winning our home back. And now that you are here there is so much more at stake. If something were to happen to you – or if I were to lose your home…” He shook his head and looked away. “I only meant to convey how important this is to me. There are many reasons why men like Lord Liddle provoke me, but when they make stupid mistakes it puts Winterfell at risk. It puts you at risk. Putting Winterfell back into Stark hands – into your hands – is a cause I’m willing to die for, and that is the truth.” 

“Winterfell means nothing if we are not there to see it, Jon. Together.”

He smiled a little sadly at her then, and the sight nearly took Sansa’s breath away. “This is a war, Sansa. I can’t promise you that I won’t-”

Suddenly, on an impulse, Sansa pulled him into her and wrapped her arms around his body. She buried her face into the hollow of his neck, letting her fingers dig into him. “I don’t care about Winterfell,” she murmured against him, only now realizing that truth herself. Because what was Winterfell now but a burned and desecrated reminder of all that the world had stolen from them? Jon though, Jon was real and flesh and blood and _here_. The world had tried to rob her of him too, but it had failed. “You are enough. You _alive_. That is enough.”

Jon’s arms wrapped around her, tight and secure, and Sansa felt him breathe her in. “I’ll do better,” he promised against her skin. “I’ll try harder not to lose my temper. I’ll try harder to heed your advice. To not lash out at you. Gods, Sansa, I felt so awful after you left. I wanted to come to you last night, but I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

When she finally pulled away, Sansa pushed herself up on her toes to press a soft kiss to Jon’s cheek. His eyes darkened and his fingers tightened where they still clung to her arms. “I’m not asking you to be docile,” she told him. “Just not so belligerent. And to trust that I’m not trying to undermine you. I’m on your side. I’m not… I’m not wholly opposed to how you are now, you know. But if you are to succeed as king you can’t isolate yourself.”

Slowly, his scarred hand reached up and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Sansa’s skin prickled under Jon’s heavy gaze and suddenly it felt a little hard to breath. “Thank you,” he told her, voice low and gravelly with the depth of his sincerity. “Thank you for being so patient. For not giving up on me.”

She smiled softly, anger already forgotten, and found herself agreeing with Val that Jon had thoroughly stolen her from Baelish.

* * * * * 

When she was woken from sleep by a wet nose on her cheek, Sansa hardly hesitated. This time there was no question about Ghost’s presence; no gentle attempts to get the wolf to let her be. No, this time she sprang from her furs and pulled a cloak about her shoulders, slipped into her boots, and gathered Ghost’s fur in her hands. “Take me to him, sweet boy.”

The guard outside his tent eyed her warily but made no move to stop her or Ghost. 

Like the time before, Jon was thrashing on the bed in clear distress. Reaching up to brush the skin of her throat, Sansa felt tendrils of fear curl into her heart. She wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t want a repeat of last time. Ghost nudged her hand. “I know, boy,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his head. “But I don’t want to make it worse.”

As if in answer, Ghost padded towards the bed and lay his head on it, looking at her expectantly. Jon let out a particularly pained noise that felt like a jolt of ice to her heart. With a heaving, frustrated sigh, Sansa began to pull off her boots and cloak. “If only Septa Mordane could see me now,” she muttered as she moved around Ghost, pulling the furs of Jon’s bed back and slipping beneath them, out of the cold. Slowly, with nerves twisting in her belly, Sansa reached for Jon’s prone form. She dragged her head to her breast as she’d done so many times with Sweetrobin, and murmured soothing words while gently stroking Jon’s hair with one hand and his back with the other. 

She shivered when his hands gripped her shift tightly, pulling their bodies so close together that she could feel his unsteady breathing. Softly, Sansa began to sing one of the old hymns Septa Mordane had taught her, smiling as Jon stilled against her in his sleep – as the rapid rhythm of his heart against hers slowed. 

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours to Sansa – Jon’s weight on her warming her more than any fur could hope to and grounding her in a way that made her belly flutter. 

“Sansa?”

Her hands stilled suddenly with the realization he had woken. His sleep heavy words were warm against her skin. “Ghost got me,” she whispered as an explanation. 

She waited from him to pull away – waited for his anger or his fear like last time. 

Instead, he nuzzled against her with a sleepy sigh. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Sansa didn’t reply but she let her hands move again, once more tangling in his curls and smoothing up and down his back. After a long moment she asked the question that was burning inside her. “What did you dream of?”

His reply was immediate. “Death. My death.”

Her hand tightened in the soft wool of his sleep shirt and the silken curls of his hair. 

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you again?” he asked quietly after a moment. 

“No,” Sansa replied honestly. “Are you?”

He paused. “Always.”

His words made her frown. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he whispered, grip tightening on her. “I should, but I don’t.”

“It isn’t proper for me to be here.”

“No.”

“I’m still a little mad at you, you know?”

“Yes.”

“Jon?”

He hummed against her. 

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

As she drifted off to sleep, lulled from the world by Jon’s warm weight on her and the steady rhythm of his breathes and his heartbeat against her, she hazily thought she felt him press a sleepy kiss against her collarbone.

* * * * * 

When Sansa woke the world was still hued in grey. She felt warm and safe buried beneath furs with her body curled against Jon’s side and Ghost pressed against her back. It reminded her of the times that summer storms had driven all the Stark children – even Jon – under the furs of Robb’s bed where they whispered ghost stories between peals of laughter and the boom of thunder. Those nights had been rare, but they sat heavy in Sansa’s heart and remained more valuable than any Lannister gold. 

Yawning, Sansa let her gaze drift to the man sleeping beside her. Bathed in the gentle light of the early winter morning, the harsh lines of Jon’s Stark features were softer. Brows unfurrowed and mouth relaxed, he looked younger. Almost like the boy she had known. It was hard to picture this peaceful man carelessly hurling curses at lords. It was hard to picture him on the battlefield. It was hard to picture him with blood in his mouth. She shivered, burrowing further into his warmth. When the even hitch of his breath didn’t change, Sansa allowed her hand to smooth along his torso. Each raised ridge of a scar she felt through the light wool of his sleeping clothes made her heart beat a little faster. 

His death wounds terrified her. They’d haunted her dreams and her waking thoughts in the days and nights since she’d first seen them. Yet something about feeling them sent a thrill through her as well. Jon had always been a good swordsman – better even than Robb. And though she certainly hadn’t told him, Sansa had thought it rather noble of him to join the Night’s Watch with her Uncle Benjen. Ever since meeting Ser Waymar Royce a year before when he stopped in Winterfell on his way to the Wall, Sansa had been enamored with the black knights of the Night’s Watch. When she’d thought about Jon during her time in the Vale, Sansa had pictured her half-brother in the image of Waymar Royce. It had been the one romanticism the south hadn’t stolen from her. 

She knew better now, after weeks with the army, what the Night’s Watch truly had been. But strangely, it did little to assuage the image she still carried in her heart of Jon Snow as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. 

Once, his scars would have scared her because they were ugly and spoke of ugly things. 

Now, Sansa thought they were rather beautiful despite the fact they spoke of ugly things. 

The ridges her fingers traveled in the morning light were proof of what Jon had paid for his dedication to the Starks. Proof that something about him was special – that he had been dead and now was not and yes, that should scare her more, but in the quiet of his tent all it did was make Sansa proud that he was hers. He was a man now, a warrior. A king and a general. There was a power and a darkness in him that called to Sansa like a forgotten dream forever etched on the tip of the tongue. 

Her gaze landed upon the deceptively almost-healed wound on his neck. 

It was Old Nan’s tales, she decided then. The ones about the Kings of Winter. That was what Jon reminded her of now. Brandon Ice Eyes and Edrick Snowbeard and Theon the Hungry Wolf. The old woman had told the Stark children tales of the hard kings of the ages past – the ones who survived winters so deep and long that the walls of Winterfell were buried in snow; the ones who united the north under Stark banners; the ones who hung the entrails of their enemies from the branches of the heart tree in Winterfell’s very own godswood. The Kings of Winter had scared Sansa as a girl. They had seemed half barbarians to her. Savages of the old faith who partook in blood sacrifice and held their kingdom together with the ferocity of the animal they’d chosen as their sigil. They had been so unlike her own father, who was kind and gentle. 

Who had gone south and lost his head.

Jon had the look of a Stark, and in moments she saw the calmness of her father. But the old Kings of Winter had been as wild as direwolves. Jon had _become_ a direwolf. 

And to think for years he’d been told his mother had left no trace in him. Perhaps dragon blood was not as strong as the Targaryens had always believed. At least, it was not stronger than wolf blood. The thought made her smile. 

The thick arm holding her against Jon’s side tightened suddenly as his breathing shifted. A lazy smile still on her face, Sansa turned to watch the king blink into wakefulness. He stiffened when he realized she was there, his sleepy grey eyes meeting her Tully blue eyes with tired surprise. Sansa expected him to pull away then, but her heart soared when Jon’s hand relaxed against her hip and he let his eyes slip closed once more. 

“Morning.” His voice was gravelly with sleep – deep and rough and warm. 

“Morning.”

“I thought I told you not to come back even if Ghost got you again.”

At the sound of his name the direwolf lifted his head before heaving out a great sigh and settling back against Sansa. Her smiled widened. “Just because you’re my king doesn’t mean I’ll follow you blindly.”

Jon huffed in a way that Sansa thought might be a laugh. “No, I suppose you won’t.”

They lay in silence for a few moments, Jon lifting his hand from Sansa’s hip to run his fingers lazily through her hair. The action was so gentle and comforting and foreign to her after years of harsh, demanding touches that it made her throat feel too thick. 

“Do you remember Old Nan’s stories about the Kings of Winter?” she asked Jon quietly, eyes still closed to the low dawn light. His hand stilled in her hair and beneath her ear Sansa heard his heart stutter. A tense silence fell over them.

“Jon?” Sansa raised her head, pushing herself up on one arm to better see his face in the murky light.

His jaw was clenched tightly, and his gaze resolutely did not meet her own. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh,” she frowned. “Well surely Father – or Robb… you do remember the Kings of Winter, right?”

His dark grey irises fell on her. “No.”

A sudden fear gripped Sansa, though she wasn’t sure why. The tales of the old Stark kings had been a staple of their childhood. Robb and he would pretend to be them in their wooden sword battles; they’d gaze up at the kings when they snuck into the crypts; those were the stories they whispered to each other in the dark of night with storms raging above Winterfell. 

Suddenly, Jon sat up, leaving Sansa to stare at his back in confusion. With a sigh he rubbed a hand over his face. “There is much I don’t remember, Sansa.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed deeply again. “I don’t know if it’s my death, or because I spent too long as Ghost, but there are these huge gaps in my memory now and I don’t… I can’t seem to fill them.”

Sansa sat up too now with a heavy ache in her chest.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa. I know you want me to remember – you don’t want to be the only one who does – but I just… I don’t.” 

Without hesitation, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his back, pressing her forehead against the muscle of his shoulder. Jon stiffened for a moment, before melting against her. Sansa couldn’t help but feel she could easily become addicted to his touch; to his warmth. Perhaps she already was. 

“But you remembered me. And you remembered that I like citrus and how I loved songs about princes. About Targaryen princes,” she murmured. 

His hands covered hers where they bunched in the fabric at his chest. “I remember some things. The big things. I remember you and Arya and Robb and Bran and Rickon. I remember your mother and Father. It’s the little things though – specific moments and stories. Weeks ago when you mentioned Robb spilling his stew… I remember Robb, I know we sparred together, and I know he was my best friend and I know… I know I was always jealous of him. But I don’t remember him spilling the stew. I don’t remember anything specific like that.”

His voice was so sad, so mournful and broken, that it made Sansa want to cry. 

“It’s part of why I kept my distance from you,” Jon added softly. “I knew you, but I didn’t. And I knew you wanted me to be someone I’m not anymore. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“None of us are who we use to be,” she whispered against his back. 

Jon was quiet for a long moment. “I want to remember. Of all the things I hate about this – about myself now – not remembering our family is the worst. I’m fighting for a home I barely remember. For a family I don’t know anymore. A family that doesn’t exist anymore.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “We exist. You and me. We are the blood of Winterfell. And I’ll tell you about it – all the memories I have.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Sansa pulled away from him, frowning at the fear she heard in his words. She tugged at him until he turned to meet her eyes – his grey gaze dark and guarded. “You are alive and here, Jon. That is enough.” 

“That isn’t a real answer.”

She sighed. “Yes, okay? Yes, I’m disappointed. But mostly I’m just sad for you.”

His jaw tightened and he looked away. “Val thinks you’ll help. That if I am around you more – especially once we are back in Winterfell – the memories will come back.”

Sansa watched him in the grey light; took stock of his imposing profile in the half dark. “Have any memories come back yet? Since I’ve been here?”

He shrugged. “No, but we haven’t spent much time together I suppose.”

_We would if we were married,_ she thought. But instead of voicing that thought, Sansa tugged Jon back down into the furs with her, craving the weight of him. “It isn’t dawn yet. We have time before we must be King Jon and Lady Stark. I’ll tell you about the Kings of Winter. You should know them, after all, if you are to be a Stark king.”

When he didn’t correct her about his name, it felt like a small victory. But that victory was nothing compared to the moment he tugged her closer – so close that she was practically on top of him – and nuzzled into the soft skin where her shoulder met her neck in a way that was both so lupine and so tender it made her giggle. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry I keep pushing you away.”

“I’m glad you’re alive and here too,” she whispered back, letting herself bask in the glory of being touched so tenderly for the first time since she was a girl. “You’re infuriating but I’m so glad we aren’t alone.” Jon’s fingers tightened on her and for a moment Sansa let herself bask in his warmth – in the fact that somehow they had finally broken through a barrier that had stood between them for weeks; for years. 

“Now,” she whispered against him. “I’ll start with Brandon Ice Eyes who reclaimed the Wolf’s Den from slavers and earned the loyalty of the Manderlys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna give y’all whiplash because the next chapter the angry tension is gonna be right there front and center hehe. I purposefully had them finally reach a ~*soft*~ vulnerable place here so that next chapter will be extra dramatic.
> 
> Also sidenote I'm OBSESSED with the Kings of Winter who were metal as hell.


	15. xv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay true to form I sorta lied. 
> 
> This is a short chapter, but it is an important enough one that I strongly felt it needed to be a stand-alone chapter. Once you finish it, I’m sure you’ll know what is coming next and understand my hints in the notes from the last chapter. 
> 
> I hope y’all understand why I felt this had to be a stand-alone scene!

Petyr was sitting at his writing desk when she burst into his tent, breathless from her punishing trek across camp. She hadn’t even bothered to stop at her own tent after leaving the warmth of Jon’s furs. Securing her cloak around her body, she’d marched across the snow-laden encampment in the soft light of morning to where she knew Baelish would be up and active – he’d always been early to rise. 

“Sansa,” he drawled, eyes wide in surprise. She watched his eyes dip to where her thin shift was visible beneath her cloak. “What brings you here so… early?”

Jon’s face, sweet with sleep, was still fresh in her mind – the warmth of him, the softness of the skin at his neck and how it contrasted with the harshness of his beard. The deep grey of his Stark eyes. She didn’t bother to mince words. “How soon after we arrive in Winterfell must I remove the king?”

Petyr’s eyes flickered to the tent’s flap. “Keep your voice down, sweet,” he hissed, rising and moving towards her. She let him guide her to a seat and bit back a snarl when he caressed her face. “You seem upset. What happened?”

Sansa felt her face flush, curling her fists in frustration with herself for so easily giving away her emotions. “Nothing… I…” she stumbled on her words, suddenly wishing she’d taken the time to compose herself; to dress properly; to put that mask over her face that she’d worn for so many years now. “Must he die?” she finally asked, voice quiet and defeated with the knowledge she was showing Baelish her cards. 

Petyr’s eyes narrowed. “Sansa,” he warned. “I have had patience with your… weakness… already. I will not do so again.”

“He is the only family left to me, Petyr,” Sansa murmured, knowing how he loved when she used his given name. “There is so much blood on my hands – so much of it belonging to my family. To add his would-”

Petyr gripped her shoulders harshly. “And how do you think _the king_ would react if he knew about that, Sansa? If he were told who it was who gave up Eddard Stark to Cersei Lannister? Who caused Lysa Arryn to fall through the moon door? Who watched as Robert Arryn wasted away? What if he knew about how you named the Starks as traitors in court?” He leaned in close, “What if he knew about your… indiscretions in the Vale?” 

Sansa’s heart was pounding in her chest. Her stomach roiled in fear and self-loathing. _How had she put herself in this position? Seven Hells, she was a fool._

“You owe him no loyalty, sweetling,” Petyr continued, pulling away from her now to take the seat opposite. “What has he done for you? Truly?”

“He’s a Stark.”

“He’s a _Snow_. Or a Sand, perhaps. A Targaryen at best. He’s no Stark.”

Tears were welling in her eyes now. “His mother was a Stark. My father raised him as a son.”

“The father whose bullheaded mistakes led to you being held prisoner by the Lannisters? The father who lied to you and your mother and siblings for years about harboring a Targaryen bastard? The father who betrothed you to _Joffrey_? The one who killed your direwolf – what was its name? Lacey?”

Her throat burned as her gaze turned to the floor, blurry with tears. _Lady_, she thought. _Her name was Lady, and she was sweet. The sweetest of them all._ She hated how Baelish saw right through her – how he knew the doubts and fears and residual anger that plagued her heart when she thought of her father – of Arya and Robb and Mother who’d abandoned her in the lion’s den. Deep in her heart Sansa knew they had good reason not to come for her – not to stay for her – but that didn’t lessen the pain of betrayal that had festered in her mind since that terrible day on the steps of Baelor’s Sept. 

“Sweetling,” Petyr cooed, voice suddenly sweet as honey. “Have I not cared for you like my own child these past years? Have I spared any expense in securing your happiness and safety? Have I not forgiven you all your transgressions and held your dark secrets for you? You owe nothing to the memory of Eddard Stark. He failed you as a father just as he failed your mother as a husband.”

“But you have not,” she sniffled, finally looking up at him. A feline smile spread across his face. 

“No, my sweet, I have not. And I never will. You know I think of you as my own – of the daughter that I could have had with Cat. That daughter that I should have had. Jon Snow is not your family. He is nothing to you – a usurper and a madman. You crave family, my dear, and how could you not? _I am your family._ I’m all that you have. I’m all you can trust. I am the only one who has never betrayed you; never abandoned you. I am the one who has dedicated myself to your advancement. To claiming your birthright.” 

He pushed out his chair and patted his lap in a clear invitation Sansa was too familiar with from her time as Alayne. Stomach churning, she did as he bid and sat atop his lap. More tears slipped down her cheeks as his bony arm wound around her waist, but she did not cringe. 

“You are sweet, my dear. Still so girlish in your innocence. This is why you need me to protect you and guide you. I must show you the hard truths of this world.” He stroked her hair then, and if felt like such a perversion of Jon’s gentle touch less than an hour earlier that Sansa wanted to chop it off her head. “There is no need for this guilt and fear. You owe Jon Snow nothing. He stole your right and your crown. He’s not your family. He’s barely even a man. Trust me, sweetling, I know what is best.”

“How long,” she whispered, staring at the tent’s flap. “How long shall we remain married?”

Petyr pressed a kiss to her neck, causing her to close her eyes as if it could close her off from the world. “Long enough for a wedding night. We can’t have a repeat of your marriage to the Imp. I’ll secure you moon tea, so you need not worry about bearing that beast’s spawn. Perhaps a week at most. I can’t stand the thought of you being used by that bastard for any longer.”

Sansa opened her eyes as another kiss was pressed to her shoulder. “And then what?”

He chuckled and let his hand drift a little lower on her hip. “Then, dear Sansa, you will be queen and free to remarry. Your Uncle Edmure is not long for this world in Lannister clutches, and once he is no more the riverlands are yours as well. I’ll work my magic and renew your betrothal to Harry, and we shall have the Vale. We will wait to see what comes of this supposedly returned Aegon in the south.” He grinned at her. “Don’t you see, sweetling? I mean to make you more than just queen of this frozen wasteland. I shall make you queen of the Seven Kingdoms. In order to achieve that, you cannot remain wed to your cousin. He cannot live.”

“I see now, Petyr,” she whispered, letting her hand work its way into his hair. It was greasy between her fingers, not soft like Jon’s curls. “I’ve been so foolish. Such a stupid girl. So ungrateful,” Sansa sighed heavily, then, dropping her voice to the sultry tone that she knew he loved best, added, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“You’re forgiven already, sweetling.” 

“You’ll never betray me, will you? Not like Eddard Stark did?”

“_Never_,” he swore, cupping her jaw. 

“How am I so lucky,” she smiled. “To have a father such as you?”

Baelish kissed her cheek sloppily and pushed her to her feet. “Go on, sweet. Dress for the day, continue convincing the brute of this marriage. Make me proud.”

Sansa giggled and kissed his cheek, wiped away her lingered tears, and slipped out his tent. 

The moment the cold morning hair brushed her skin, the pretty smile on her lips vanished. Her jaw tightened; her fists curled. She was overcome with the need to empty her stomach. With a disgusted look back at Baelish’s tent, she began the trek back across camp to her tent. Once inside, Sansa took her time dressing – careful to wear her Stark colors and braiding her hair in the way she remembered her mother had when she was a girl. In the northern fashion.

For here was the truth: 

Sansa Stark had once sought to lose her Stark name. She’d dreamed of the south and of a golden-haired husband and long summers filled with flowers and lush gardens. She’d thought Winterfell drab and northern fashion too simple and turned her nose at northern music; at northern dancing; at tales of the Stark heroes. 

Sansa Stark had once been forced to rebuke her Stark name. She’d been told to write letters and make public demonstrations of her displeasure with her family’s treachery and treason. She’d been forced to wish her mother and brothers dead and openly called her father an oathbreaker and traitor. 

Sansa Stark had one been taught to forget her Stark name. She’d hidden her mother’s hair and discarded her father’s lineage. She’d colored her tongue with lies and truths that belonged to a girl, then a woman, who didn’t exist. She’d allowed her own erasure from the world with no fight at all. 

Now, sitting in the dim light of her tent with winter unfurling around her like the Stark banners that adorned the camp, threading her hair with the echoes of her mother’s hands and garbed in the colors of her father’s house, Sansa Stark finally returned. 

Or perhaps, she was finally born. 

The last gilded chains of the south fell from her skin as she resolved to free herself from the cage that had closed around her when she was a child. 

A songbird could be caged in such finery, after all, but a wolf could not. 

Her father – her _true_ father, the one who had given her life and her name – had once told Sansa Stark when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

With a final glance at her reflection, Sansa Stark left the tent in search of her king and ready to finally trust in her remaining pack. 

Winter was coming, and Sansa Stark refused to lose, rebuke, or forget her name ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I love my baby girl
> 
> Next chapter is halfway done so it should be up before the end of the week. 
> 
> Truths will be told!!! Fights will be had!!! Agreements will be reached!!! 
> 
> We. Are. So. Close. Now. 
> 
> ((also I'm super nervous about this chapter for some reason so please let me know your thoughts, I know this one is short but I hope y'all get why it had to be stand alone))


	16. xvi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry this took so long to get up. Law school is making my life hell right now. Thank you as always for your sweet comments. I don’t often reply, but I do read all of them and smile a lot :)
> 
> I hope the length and content of this chapter makes up for the wait. 
> 
> Also if any of you are following my mob AU, I’m hoping to have the next chapter up on Saturday but I make no promises.

Jon was locked in battle with Tormund when she found him. A small crowd had gathered to watch the king sparring, and as Sansa took her place standing beside Howland Reed, she caught Lord Dormund’s inquisitive eye across the pitch. With a frown she turned her attention back to the false battle before them. 

“How are you, Lady Stark?”

Sansa smiled, not turning her gaze from where Jon lunged towards the bulky wildling. It appeared he was just as skilled as she remembered from their youth in Winterfell. With an ache she thought of the afternoons she spent sewing with Jeyne and Septa Mordane, pretending not to glance out the window to watch her brothers learn to fight. The memory only reminded her of all she had lost. And now all that she had to relay to Jon. “I am well, Lord Reed. And you?”

He sighed. “Well. Rather tired of war, but well. It shouldn’t be long before we are at Winterfell now.”

A tendril of fear curled in Sansa’s heart. _As if she needed a reminder that her honesty had a deadline._

“Good, I am glad to hear it." She forced herself to smile again. "The king certainly looks prepared enough for battle,” she noted as Jon swiped at Tormund’s feet and knocked his sword away. The older man fell to the ground, laughing. 

“Aye you got me this time, King Crow,” he barked, taking the hand Jon offered him. “But I remember when you was a lad in Mance’s camp. I gave you a proper beating then.” 

Jon’s smile was faint; barely there. “I’m a boy no more,” he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow before sheathing his sword. 

“Have you had any luck convincing his Grace?”

Sansa pulled her attention back to Lord read, confused for a moment. “Oh, no.” She blushed. “No, I haven’t.” She turned back to Jon in time for him to catch her eye. The small smile that bloomed on his face transformed his features in a pleasant way the one he’d offered Tormund hadn’t. Howland Reed chuckled knowingly next to her. 

“I’d say your luck hasn’t run out yet.” 

She blushed again, but the knowledge of the conversation that lay ahead iced the warmth spreading in her chest. “I hope you are right, my lord.”

He smiled at her before nodding his head. “I’ll leave you to it, Lady Stark.” As Lord Reed turned away Sansa frowned in confusion before a deep voice sounded behind her. 

“How are you, my lady?”

Nerves churned in her belly. She turned to face her cousin; her king. “I would be better if you did not rely on such formalities, _your Grace_.”

Jon’s smile grew and the sight broke her heart. Sansa hoped against hope that she’d be blessed with that sight once more. 

“I was hoping to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

Jon gazed at the dispersing crowd and nodded. “Aye. Would you like to go for a ride?”

“No,” she sighed. “No, I think it best if we speak in your tent. It won’t take long.”

He gave her a curious look but nodded, motioning for her to lead the way. 

* * * * * 

“Sansa,” Jon sighed, removing his training armor. “If this is about marriage again, I already-”

She held a hand up. “No, it isn’t.” 

Her cousin frowned, eyes narrowing as they roamed her face. “Did someone hurt you?” Jon took a step towards her. “Did Dormund say something? _Did Baelish_-”

“Jon,” she stopped him, voice soft yet firm; hoping he didn’t realize how closely he’d hit the mark. She meant to share some truths with him, but there were some things held in her chest that would take longer to unearth. “I am well.” Sansa steeled herself before continuing. “Though, it is Lord Baelish that I wish to discuss with you.”

The king’s jaw tightened. “I don’t trust him. Neither does Ghost.”

“Good.” She watched as he moved to a basin and splashed his face with water. Ignoring the tightening in her belly at the sight of his damp curls, Sansa grabbed a cloth and held it out to him. She did her best to ignore the way his sweat soaked undershirt clung to him; did her best to ignore the fact they were alone in his tent as he wore only his undershirt and breeches. After Jon dried his face and beard, she nodded to his desk. “Sit, and please, just listen.” Sansa followed him to the desk, taking her seat across from him. With a deep breath, she began. “Jon, I must ask that you listen to all I must say – that you don’t rush to conclusions or into anger. Please know that I am loyal to you and to only you, and that I have only the interest of our family in mind now.”

He eyed her carefully and ran a hand through his wet, tangled curls. “Sansa, I’m not sure what you are asking of me.”

“I am asking you to be calm and rational. To not act immediately, but to heed my advice.”

Jon turned his face, shame coloring his cheeks. “You mean to chastise me then, cousin? What is it I have done now?”

“No,” Sansa told him softly. She had the urge to touch him then, to provide some comfort or reminder that she saw his humanity, but refrained. “I’m afraid it will be you who will want to chastise me.”

His frown deepened as he turned back to her. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

She smiled sadly. “I’m afraid I have not been honest with you, Jon.”

A note of fear flickered in Jon’s eyes. The sight made her heart sink; made the nerves twisting in her chest that much worse. 

“I told you that when I first arrived here, it was with the intention to claim my right as the eldest living child of Eddard Stark. I did not intend to kneel to you, but to challenge your claim.”

He nodded; his gaze wary. “Aye, you did.”

“I told you it was Lord Baelish’s plan.”

“Aye.”

Sansa sighed, her gaze falling to where her hands rubbed against each other nervously in her lap. “He was not pleased that I knelt.” When she looked up once more, Jon’s face was carefully guarded. Sansa worried a lip between her teeth. “You see, he had spent weeks – months – corresponding with your lords to win their favor for me. In the Vale, we heard about your crowning, and then the news of your birth. And we heard… well, we heard rumors about you. About your… temperament.”

Jon tore his gaze from her, eyes hard with shame. 

“He – we – concocted a plan. For me to be made queen.”

“Sansa, I’ve told you that if you want it-”

She held a hand up. “And I’ve told you I don’t. Please, Jon, just listen.” 

He nodded, mouth tight as if he had to physically restrain his words from leaving his lips. 

“You see, while I was in the Vale, Lord Baelish hid me as his bastard daughter. I was Alayne Stone for years, but all the while he worked to build better connections for Sansa Stark – to recruit allies and find paths to restore my power.”

Jon nodded again. This was no news – half of Westeros surely knew the true identity of Alayne Stone by now. 

“Only it wasn’t truly my power he wanted to restore. He wanted to use me to build upon his own power. It took me years to realize that. But he’d saved me from the Lannisters, Jon. Where Robb and Father failed, he succeeded. He reminded me of that constantly – he made me believe that he was my only hope in this world. My only path home. The only person left who would help me. That he was the gallant knight I'd dreamed of as a girl.”

“Sansa-”

“But I learned, slowly, not to trust him. And I learned how to use his own teachings against him.” She sighed, trying desperately to calm her nerves. “When I knelt to you, he was furious. I’d ruined months of planning in a moment. But Lord Baelish is a patient, diligent man, Jon. He hasn’t given up. And your lords… Well, as I have warned you, your lords are not pleased with... with-“

“With my kingship. With my _temperament_.”

“No.”

Jon nodded in understanding, his gaze on the table. 

“Lord Baelish met with those he’d courted before our arrival shortly after I knelt and assured them that I still intended to have the crown, as was my right. The plan shifted. Instead of denying you outright, I was to wait until you had retaken Winterfell and then deny your legitimacy on the basis of your birth. The lords Baelish had swayed would support me in deposing you, and I would take the northern throne for myself without needing to win Winterfell.” 

She watched Jon’s jaw tighten – watched his eyes darken. 

“Since I have been here, he has swayed more lords to his side. More than half now.”

Jon stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor as he began to pace. Sansa’s heart started to beat faster at his clear agitation. 

“And how do they plan to depose me, Lady Stark?”

The use of her title hit Sansa like a slap, but she recovered quickly. “They meant to kill you.”

His eyes flashed. A hand rose to his chest and Sansa’s throat tightened as she realized he was touching the scar over his heart. “Meant?” he growled. 

“The plan changed.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. 

“It was my idea,” she sighed, rising now to meet him. Sansa let a hand rest on his bicep, hoping the touch would calm him. “Our marriage, that is. The morning after that night – the first night that Ghost brought me to your bed, Baelish was waiting in my tent.” 

Jon’s eyes flickered down to her neck briefly, no doubt recounting when he hands had choked the air from her lungs. 

“He watches my movements. He knew I had been to your tent in the night and doubted my loyalty to him. Jon, from the moment I saw you again, I have known in my heart that I could never choose another over you – over our family. I didn’t want to take your crown; I didn’t want to harm you. I barely knew you, but I did knew I couldn’t go through with Petyr’s plan.”

The muscle under her hand tensed.

“But I knew I couldn’t outright defy him without catastrophic blowback, so I lied. I told him that I had visited you to seduce you,” she blushed. “I planted the seed in his mind for our marriage to hide the real reason I had come to your tent because I didn't want him to know your vulnerabilities and because I knew a marriage would protect you. The lords don’t like you – but their legal claim to depose you rises from your birth. Robb’s legitimatization makes you a Targaryen, but a bastard marriage could make you a Stark. It would be a clear sign of my support for _your_ claim and could unite the lords still loyal to you and those loyal to me. It would be a way around Baelish’s plotting. But Baelish saw the other side of it – the side I wanted him to. With a marriage between us, it would be easier to unite all the lords under me. We could more easily remove you – we wouldn’t have to worry about an outright rebellion.”

Jon pulled away from her touch, pacing the tent like a caged animal. “Remove me?” he hissed. 

Sansa pursed her lips, ignoring the question. “The plan changed again. This time to marriage after you take Winterfell. Baelish spoke with the lords, who convinced Lord Reed, who spoke to me. That way it wouldn't look like the suggestion came from us.”

“_Us,_" Jon scoffed. "And then you suggested it to me.”

She nodded. “But please, Jon, you must believe me when I tell you that my only intention was to keep you safe. I never intended to follow through with Petyr’s plan – I swear it to you on-”

“And what is his plan now? Now that I have refused you?” Jon spit out. 

Sansa gripped her skirts as if the pressure could ground her. “He thinks I’m still seducing you. That I’ll convince you to marry me by the time we are at Winterfell, and once there we will wed and then I will kill you discreetly. With poison a week after the wedding.”

Anger flared in Jon’s features. 

“Seducing me,” he scoffed. “Do you do that often, cousin? Seduce and kill men? Is that what _Petyr_ taught you in the Vale?”

Shame curled in her gut as she looked away. “_Of course not_. I have no intention to follow through, Jon. He believes I do but-”

Suddenly Jon was in her space, his rough hands gripping her shoulders so tightly it was painful. “Did you tell him then? About me? The truth of what I am? Surely that would help his cause."

“No,” Sansa replied vehemently, eyes wide at the feral look in Jon’s features. “No, of course I didn’t. I told you - I'm trying to protect you, not help him! Please, you’re hurting me.”

His jaw clenched as he wrenched away from her so suddenly it caused her to stumble. “And how do I know all this,” he gestured wildly at her, “is not a ploy to make me trust you?”

“You said it yourself, if I want the crown all I need to do is ask.” She stepped towards him again; hand outstretched cautiously as if approaching a wild animal. “I do want you to trust me, but not so that I can hurt you. Jon, I’m loyal to you and only you.”

Jon scoffed. “And I’m to just believe that? We barely spoke as children – I don’t remember much, but I remember that. I remember the contempt your mother had for me; how much she feared I would steal her children’s claim.”

“Jon-”

“No, if I give you the crown I’m still in the picture – and dear _Petyr_ can’t have that, can he?” 

Tears burned in Sansa’s eyes as she watched Jon’s rage consume him; watched the hurt and anger wind around his features like a coiled snake. “I’m telling you the truth to protect you. To show you can trust me!”

“Oh, aye!” He spit back. “You tell me the truth _now_! Why not the moment you arrived?”

“I did! I warned you about the lords – I’ve been telling you for weeks to mind your behavior; that they are plotting against you!”

“You never told me the specifics! You never told me you were involved in it!”

“Because I didn’t want to lose your trust!” she cried out, voice breaking over a sob as her emotions and fear of losing him finally got the best of her. Sansa crossed the space between them and tried to pull him towards her, desperate for his touch; desperate to assure herself that she still had that connection to him, but Jon pulled away, his expression dark. 

“Have you been trying to seduce me?” he growled. “Is that why you’ve come to my tent in the night? Why you stayed this morning? Is that why you – why you-“ Jon’s face grew red and he turned from her suddenly, a muscle tightening in his jaw as his fists clenched. 

Sansa was wrenched into the memory of her binding his wounds – of her dressing him for battle – of their argument after his war council - of the way it felt to be pressed against the warmth of his body beneath his furs. The intimacy of those moments; the heat of them. 

“_No,_” she said fiercely. “_No._ Ghost fetched me Jon.” Sansa felt herself blush furiously. “And those times… I’ve only wanted to care for you. You’re the only family left to me. You’re my king! I haven’t – None of my actions towards you have been a lie, none of my affections either.” 

“And I’m to simply trust that?”

She brushed furiously at the tears on her cheeks. “Yes! I want to bring Baelish down. I want to end this charade, but I can’t do that alone. And you can’t succeed as king on your own.”

“So what,” he scoffed. “I’m to ignore all this and marry you then? And that fixes everything?”

“It doesn’t fix everything, but it will help! Seven help me, Jon, the wildlings already think you stole me!” The blush that spread across his angry features brought Sansa a small sense of victory. She inched closer to him and softened her voice. “It would unite our factions and the north. It would legitimize your crown and claim to Winterfell.”

“So I’m to believe you are so self-sacrificing that you’d give your body and name to me just for my protection?” Jon sneered, his expression hard and cruel. 

“No,” Sansa countered. “It would protect me as much as you. Believe me, I am not so willing to sell my body. You would make me queen and bring me under your protection. Baelish would have no claim on me anymore.”

Jon choked out a dark laugh. “Oh, he has a claim on you, does he?”

Anger welled in Sansa then; anger and shame and utter frustration. With a suddenly urge of aggression, she reached out and shoved Jon away from her as hard as she could. He stumbled back in surprise, back hitting the table holding his basin of water. The bowl fell to the floor, shattering. “Don’t you dare presume to know what it is between he and I,” Sansa hissed. “Do you have any idea what it is to be a woman alone in the world? To depend on a man like Petyr Baelish just to survive?”

Something dark crossed over Jon’s features then. He shoved himself off the table, stalking towards her once more. “Sansa-” he growled, but she cut him off again. 

“I’ve told you all this because I trust you, Jon. Because I _choose_ you. I’m tired of being a piece for men to toss around the board. For weeks now I’ve been walking a fine line just to keep you safe! I am asking you to trust me in return! I want you and I to be equals - to be partners!”

“And how can I trust you now?” he snarled back. “How can I trust you when you’ve kept a plot to _murder_ me quiet for weeks? How can I know anything you tell me is the truth?”

“I am not your enemy!”

Jon stared at her, his body tense and his eyes wild and mean. None of the warmth that had colored in the grey of the morning them remained. “I was warned once," he said, voice dangerously quiet suddenly. "Of daggers in the dark. I didn’t heed those warnings. I won’t make the mistake again.”

“Jon-”

“Go, Lady Stark,” he told her in a tone so icy it sent a chill down her back. “Rest assured, I’ll win Winterfell for you.”

Sansa opened her mouth but couldn’t seem to find words. She realized she was shaking. “I am not your enemy,” she repeated, voice quiet. “When the white winds blow-”

“Don’t,” Jon growled. They stared at each other, gazes hard and hurt, before Jon broke the silence. “Get out.”

Sansa brushed more tears away with a huff of frustration. She felt ill – like she would be sick if she stayed in his presence a moment longer. With a final pointed glare, she moved for the exit. Just before she could leave, though, Jon caught her arm in a vice like grip. 

“Has he touched you?” His voice was low; dangerous and black like the calm before the storm. 

Sansa was silent for a long moment, her anger making her breath come heavy and fast. She yanked her arm out of Jon’s grasp. “If he had would it matter to you? Would you trust me then?” she muttered darkly. 

“_Sansa._”

She glared at him. “Oh, not Lady Stark now?” 

His eyes hardened again. 

“Here is your new warning of daggers in the dark, Jon: Don’t go after him. If you move on him now, you’ll be dead before his body is cold. You don’t have the numbers, whether you believe me or not.”

She left before he could say another word; before another dagger could be buried in her own heart. 

* * * * * 

That night Jon held a war council. 

She could hear his yelling from her tent; could hear the crash of something; the protests of his counselors. But she remained in the dark quiet of her own tent, nursing her hurt and her shame. 

He was missing from camp nearly all of the following day, as was Ghost. 

Sansa spent most of the day in her tent, pretending she didn't feel sick to her stomach.

* * * * * 

From the first time she heard them weeks before to the present, Sansa’s heart always grew heavy at the sound of war horns; at how their wail fell over her with a chill. 

She fastened her cloak about her shoulders and stepped out of her tent as the familiar scene unfolded. The camp turned into a sea of movement – men and spearwives leaving, their loved ones and friends watching, the steady stream of counselors and advisors in and out of the king’s tent. And there, across the small clearing that housed the tents of the most senior members of Jon’s court, was Littlefinger. 

At least she could be grateful he was _alive_ still. That despite his fury, Jon had tended to her parting advice. 

Sansa met his gaze briefly, letting the weight of it roll over her bones, before turning her attention back to the bustle of camp. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing her squirm under his inquisition. It had been nearly a week since she’d laid herself bare before Jon – since she had stripped herself of nearly every lie and half-truth, trusting only in his Stark blood and the piece of her father that remained within his heart. 

Three days hadn’t passed before Baelish found her. The iciness between the King and Lady of Winterfell had been noticed, of course. It shouldn’t have surprised her considering the camp was consumed with whispers about them. Whispers about a secret betrothal; whispers about the King’s cousin sneaking into his tent at night. No, she knew that Petyr would pick up on the evidence her relationship with Jon had crashed and burned. She just didn’t expect him to pick up on it so soon. 

Glancing back at Petyr, she watched his lips curve into a small, knowing smile. 

She’d told him it was a minor setback. She’d told him Jon was frustrated because she hadn’t given into his carnal desire for her yet. She’d told him that she was set on making Jon _beg_ for her. 

Sansa forced a returning smile onto her lips. A coy little thing that she knew would fuel his delusions of her affection for a few hours at least. It was almost too easy. He’d taught her too well, and he’d always had a weak spot for her; for her mother. It was easy to play someone when you knew they couldn’t see your moves; when you knew they couldn't see _you_. Petyr would never know how much he repulsed her. At least, not for a while yet if she could bring Jon around. 

Suddenly, Petyr broke their shared gaze and turned his attention to the king’s tent. Sansa’s eyes followed, her stomach swooping as she saw Jon emerge from the structure. She’d seen him in his armor countless times now – she’d even been the one to arm him once – and yet the sight of him dressed for war never ceased to consume her with a mix of fear and awe. For half a heartbeat, his heavy Stark eyes met her. His gaze was steely and revealed nothing of his mind, but it tugged at her like a rope. Sansa watched as Satin brought him his helm and shield, as Ghost nudged at his shoulder, as his raven lifted from his shoulder and flew into the din of the camp. She could feel Petyr’s gaze back on her but ignored it. 

Another horn sounded and one of Jon’s men brought his warhorse. He mounted the animal in a fluid movement that spoke of his experience with battle. There was no hesitation in his posture or actions; no fear of battle or shudder of nerves. If anything, the king was calmer and more collected than she’d seen him in most situations in camp. A horrid thought struck Sansa then. The fear she saw in other warriors – that she’d seen in King’s Landing during Stannis Baratheon’s attack and here in the north in the many battles and skirmishes the army had encountered – it was a fear of death. A fear of the horrors of war and the inevitability of not returning from it. 

That fear was absent in Jon. 

_Does he not fear death_, she wondered. Then, a darker thought. _Does he crave it?_

The thought was too horrid to consider, so she pushed it away as she watched him urge his horse forward. As he passed her, he didn’t spare Sansa so much as a glance, though Ghost bumped her with his snout as he followed at the destrier’s side. It was the first contact she'd had from the direwolf in a week, and the simple action was enough to make tears well in her eyes. Somehow, it made Jon's rejection all the more evident.

A cool dread settled over Sansa as she watched the king melt into the crowd. She couldn't bear the thought of him falling in battle while they remained locked in this stalemate of distrust. _Protect him,_ she prayed to any god that would listen. Her eyes met Petyr’s once again. _Please, please protect him._

* * * * *

She was sitting at her small table writing a letter to Myranda when the men returned from the field. In seconds the quiet turned to a thunder of hooves and a chorus of shouting – some cheers and some calls for maesters or woods witches. Sansa’s stomach twisted in knots as she thought of Jon. She ached to seek him out; to know he was well. But how could she? Everything they had built had been burned away. 

“Your Grace! What are you-”

Sansa jumped at the shout from outside her tent and turned just in time to see Jon – still armored, bloody and dirty – ducking inside. His eyes were wild and his face was twisted with a set of determination that both took her breath away and made her fingers curl in fear. 

“Jon,” she gasped as he strode towards her, tossing Longclaw, still unsheathed and unclean in his hand, on the ground. 

Sansa stood and began to back away as Jon closed in on her. “What are you-”

“I’ll marry you,” he growled. “When we take back Winterfell. In the godswood. If it’s still what you want, I’ll marry you.”

She stared at him stupidly for a minute, not comprehending his words. 

“W-why?” Sansa stuttered as Jon came to a stop before her, towering above her and invading her space. She could smell the blood and sweat on him. It should have revulsed her. It should have scared her. Instead she was consumed with the fact he was in her presence at all. “What made you change your mind?”

Suddenly, Jon’s gloved and mailed hands were cupping her jaw and he was closer. Sansa swallowed thickly as she met his dark eyes, her breath coming fast now. 

“I wanted to live,” he told her, voice low and deep; full of emotion. “For the first time since I died, when I was on that fucking field, I _wanted to live_. I mean to see you safely to Winterfell, and I mean to destroy our enemies that still linger. If you believe marriage would make us both safer, then I’ll do it.”

“I’m not your enemy, then?” she whispered, hope blooming in her chest.

His hands slipped from her jaw down her neck, smoothing over her shoulders. “If you are, I don’t care. You say that you want to bring Baelish down. I can either trust that, and you, or I can lose you. I thought I could handle the latter, but every time one of Bolton’s men tried to cut me down, I thought of you – thought of returning you home; thought of what would happen to you if I died again. If this time I didn’t come back.” Sansa let her hands snake up to hold his bearded jaw as Jon’s grip found her hips, his fingers curling into the flesh beneath her wool as if craving her warmth. “_I want to live again._ I have to, if only to keep you safe.” 

She felt as if she could cry from the force of relief that washed over her. It made no sense - Sansa couldn't comprehend why he'd changed his mind despite his explanations. Could it truly be purely from his affection for her? From his desire for her tor truly be safe? Her throat burned with unshed tears at the thought. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt that someone truly had her best interest in mind. That she wasn't being used for some other, larger reason. “Winter is here,” she murmured, voice tight with emotion. Sansa brushed her thumb along the scar on Jon's face. “We’ll reclaim our home together, and the throne. And together we’ll finish Baelish.”

Jon’s grip on her tightened. “This is still what you want then?” he whispered, battle-wild eyes wandering over her face. 

She nodded. “We will make the wolves come again, Jon. We will remind the north _and the south_ who has ruled these lands for 8,000 years.”

Jon’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening so much so that it made her wince in pain. He swallowed and nodded, releasing his hold on her and taking a step away. Sansa let her hands fall to her side as she watched his jaw tense. 

Suddenly the logistics of it all clouded Sansa's thoughts. “You’ll need to formally annul my marriage to Tyrion Lannister. It was never consummated, so it should not be too great a task.”

“You were a child,” Jon scoffed. “And a prisoner. I should hope it would be easy to annul.” His eyes found her again, hard and dark. “Your vows were said in a sept?”

She nodded. 

“Then they mean nothing here.”

There was a time she would have protested. After all, Sansa was raised in the Light of the Seven by her mother. But something in her stomach tightened at the deep tenor of Jon’s tone; the possessive – feral – edge in it. He was of the old gods; her father’s gods. And if she was to be his, then she’d happily take them as her gods as well. What had the Seven ever done for her, anyhow? What prayers had they answered in her youth?

“I am betrothed to Harrold Hardyng in the Vale. That must be formally broken.”

Jon stepped back into her space then, his hand closing around a spare piece of fabric sitting on the table beside them. Gently, he brushed the cloth across her cheeks where his hands had held her. When he pulled it away, the cloth was stained with mud and blood. Sansa tore her eyes from the ruined fabric to meet his heavy gaze. 

“Harrold Hardyng holds no sway here. The north is sovereign. You are free to choose your husband, Sansa.” 

“Good,” she breathed, taking the fabric from his hands. When their fingers brushed, she felt the spark of it race through her body. She wiped his bloodied, sweaty face with the cloth’s clean side, letting her thumb brush against his lips gently. “I have chosen, your Grace. I would make you a Stark in name, not just in blood.”

“Then I will make you a queen,” Jon murmured low. “In name, not just in blood.”

“Can you forgive me? For agreeing to Baelish’s plot? For keeping it from you?”

Jon sighed, his hands finding her hips again as if he were unable to keep from touching her. “I… trust is hard for me. After what my men did.”

Sansa frowned. Her throat felt tight. Gently, she ran a hand through the curls at his temple. “I didn’t know you,” she told him softly. “It had been years since I’d seen you. And as children we hardly knew one another. I’d been with Petyr for so long and I – I’m so sorry, Jon. As soon as I saw you, I knew I could never go through with it. And then I didn’t know how to tell you as the plan changed. I didn’t know how you would react, and everything was so delicate. I was so afraid of losing you. Of losing your trust before I even had it.”

He stared down at her for a long moment. “I want to trust you,” he finally whispered, hands heavy on her body. “I want… I want…” Jon pressed his lips together and looked away, his fingers falling from her hips. He sighed. “We will marry, if that is what you want. You know what I am. If this is your choice, then I accept it.”

With one more long, heated gaze, Jon turned, grabbed Longclaw from the floor, and was gone as suddenly as he had appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for pushing this over 1000 kudos!!!!!!!!! I'm amazed!!!!!!!!!!! And so grateful!!!!!!! And probably going to write a sequel because of it!!!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> I hope this chapter lived up to the hype. It was extremely hard to write :( I feel like there is such a fine line a have to walk with these two to achieve the affect I'm going for of tension and tenderness. 
> 
> (also it was in this chapter that i realized how similar the made up character of Dormund's name is to Tormund and I want to hide under a rock. still not as bad as the moment I realized Lord Liddle actually appears in the books and is a dope dude and immediately hated that his was the random northern name i picked for this au)


	17. xvii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT 
> 
> My life is hell right now, BUT here is a chapter to ease you into the holidays. It’s dramatic, but who doesn’t love some good drama. Here I deliever the ~twist~ that I've been waiting to drop. There is one more, but that's going to be later on :)
> 
> Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> Warning: *References* to sexual assault

Petyr’s eyes narrowed over his arched hands. 

Across from him, Sansa waited in silence. Her stomach was churning with nerves, though she wasn’t quite sure why. It had been two days since Jon agreed to their marriage. Two days since she had informed Petyr. One day since the betrothal had been announced. She had no reason to be nervous, she’d given Petyr exactly what he wanted. 

And yet, she clenched her hands tightly where they lay hidden beneath the table. 

“The lords are not pleased,” he finally said – voice cold and quiet. He’d been the one to summon her to his tent. She’d avoided the summons as long as possible; visiting Val and brushing out Ghost’s fur and tending to the wounded. In the end, Petyr had found her. Waited in her tent so that when she returned in the afternoon, she had no choice but to treat with him. 

A horn sounded low outside the tent. For a moment she froze, fearing battle, before recognizing the sound as one announcing visitors. 

“I thought they’d agreed to our plan,” Sansa replied, letting her attention fully return to the matter at hand rather than the affairs of the camp. “A marriage, with an untimely end.”

Petyr’s lips quirked in what was almost a smirk. His fingers dropped down to the table and tapped out an anxious rhythm. He sighed. “It is what they agreed to. But that doesn’t mean they are pleased with the idea.”

Sansa’s chest felt tight. “What more can I do? We must wait until Winterfell-”

“No, no,” Petyr interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “There is nothing to be done.” He sighed again and leaned back in his chair, his eyes watching her carefully. “They are not pleased with the prospect of your wedding night. Some feel that they are betraying Eddard Stark by handing you over to the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen – to a man who is more wolf than man. A usurper.”

“They do so with noble aim. And I have willingly agreed to it.”

Petyr shrugged. “I said as much. These northerners though,” he scoffed with an air of disgust. “They are so bound in their notions of honor. It’s no wonder they are easier to work than a Lysene whore in Flea Bottom.” Bringing a hand to his lips, Petyr leaned forward again. “To be honest, I myself am not particularly pleased by the idea of that filth having you.”

Sansa was careful to school her face. “It will only be for a week. I shall survive it, knowing my throne will soon be secured. That my revenge is close at hand.”

His eyes were hard for a long moment, before softening. “My brave girl.”

A fake smile. A demur lowering of her lashes. A delicate swallow. 

It was easy to work Petyr. _Easier than a Lysene whore in Flea Bottom._

A sudden commotion rippled through the tent, pulling both Baelish and Sansa’s attention from their respective games. Shouts – a woman’s scream – swords being drawn and a wolf growling. “Oh for the love of – _what now_?” Petyr spit out, shoving away from the table and stalking towards the tent’s entrance. Sansa followed him, fear twisting in her. She’d told Jon to be more careful – told him to rein in his temper. Gods, they were hopeless if he didn’t control himself better. 

Unsurprisingly, Sansa’s eyes found Jon in the clearing between tents, surrounded by soldiers with Ghost snarling next to him. His eyes were dark – murderous and unyielding – and his hand was clenched around the throat of an old man. A few unfamiliar soldiers stood close by, all plainly exhausted and bearing the crest of Stannis Baratheon. Their eyes were wide with fright, and one was holding a woman back as she struggled to reach the old man, shouting and screaming at Jon to free him. 

“- you deserve worse for what you did!” Jon was snarling. “They trusted you! Robb trusted you! You’re no better than a _kinslayer_. You pathetic fucking-”

Suddenly, Petyr stilled next to her and grabbed her arm painfully tight. Sansa ripped her eyes away from Jon, puzzled as to who the old man could be, to find Petyr’s stricken face focused elsewhere. She followed his gaze to a woman she hadn’t noticed before, one also standing by the Baratheon soldiers. She was a slight figure, shaking, with limp mousy brown hair and frightened eyes. The woman was crying hysterically; clutching to a soldier’s arm. Her face was familiar – like a dream Sansa couldn’t quite remember. 

“Sweetling, come, let’s go back inside. There is no need-”

“I know that woman,” Sansa muttered, tugging her arm away from Petyr. 

“Baratheon loyalists, nothing more. How could you possibly know-”

It hit Sansa like a blow to the gut. But it couldn’t be. No… she was dead? Dead or long gone. Certainly she wouldn’t look… look so… so worn. “Jeyne?” she whispered, stepping towards the weeping woman. 

“Sansa-”

“Jeyne? Jeyne Poole?”

The woman turned, hearing Sansa’s shout. Her eyes widened, mouth falling open. 

“Jeyne!” Sansa repeated, now striding forward, sure of her identification. “By the Seven, Jeyne! You’re alive!” 

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon’s grip on the old man slack as he watched her – saw Tormund shove him away while he was distracted and let the old man crumple to the snowy ground as if boneless. 

“Sansa?” Jeyne asked, shaking more violently than before. “Sansa? Oh, Sansa! Sansa!” She tugged away from the Baratheon soldier, meeting Sansa only a few feet away. 

The woman embraced tightly, clutching desperately at each other’s clothing – for a moment the camp faded, as did the years. Sansa was twelve again; trapped in the lion’s den with Jeyne’s face the only one familiar to her. Until she’d been taken. Until she’d been lost. It took a moment for Sansa to realize the sobs she heard were her own. Jeyne was shaking in her arms, and crying as well, murmuring “I’m sorry” over and over and over until Sansa could bear it no longer. She pulled away from her childhood friend, hands clutching at the other woman’s cheeks. She frowned at what she saw; at the red, wind-chapped skin; the hollow, gaunt cheeks; the sunken eyes; the split lip. 

“Don’t apologize,” Sansa whispered. “Oh, Jeyne, never apologize. It is I who should apologize to you.”

“No,” Jeyne insisted. “No, no, no. They made me do it, Sansa. Oh, what would Septa Mordane say? And then they made me pretend to be Arya. I didn’t want it, but they threatened me. And then he… he… Oh, Sansa.” She began to cry again, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Sansa hushed her, pulling Jeyne’s hands from her face. “Stop it,” she said gently. “Stop apologizing.

“Sansa?”

She turned to see Jon looking at her, dark eyes hard and frown deep. “It’s Jeyne,” she told him, ignoring the curious and suspicious looks surrounding them. “Jeyne Poole. From Winterfell – my dear friend. Vayon’s daughter.”

Jon’s mouth parted. After a long moment, he shook his head. _He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember Jeyne._

“Please,” Jeyne begged suddenly, pulling at Sansa’s sleeves. “Please, he’s going to kill Theon. You can’t let him. Theon saved me… he… he was kind to me. Oh, Sansa, you can’t let him kill Theon.”

“Theon?” Sansa asked, bewildered. She turned to the old man, still slumped on the ground. Ghost stood over him, still snarling. “But… that can’t be… He was barely older than Robb?” 

“It’s him,” Jon growled, throwing an utterly disgusted look back at the man. “The fucker came crawling here begging my mercy. Saying he could help us defeat Ramsay.” He did nothing to mask the venom in his tone. 

Hatred pulsed through Sansa then, deep and dark and suffocating. Bran and Rickon. Winterfell. Robb. Her mother. All lost because of Theon’s greed. His treachery. 

“Please,” Jeyne sobbed, her head dropping to Sansa’s shoulder. “Please, Sansa. Please, just let us explain. He saved me.”

She looked at Jon and pushed her anger away. “Surely more can be gained from listening to what he has to say.”

“Sansa,” Jon growled in warning. 

“A trial. It is the old way, your Grace. Give a man his last words.”

“An honorable death is less than what that son of a-”

“It is the Stark way.”

Jon held her gaze, eyes burning. His scars stretched across his face, pulled tight by his clenched jaw and hard frown. After what felt like hours he nodded. “Lock him up – lock them all up,” Jon barked, eyes never leaving Sansa.

Jeyne froze in her arms. “No… no, no, I can’t… Asha can’t…”

“Not the women,” Sansa whispered, holding Jon’s glare. “Let me take Jeyne to Val. Let the other woman come too. They’ve been exposed to the cold; they need medical attention. Food. Warmth.”

A muscle ticked in Jon’s jaw, but he nodded. 

She helped Jeyne stand, wrapping an arm around her old friend’s waist, and did her best to ignore how skinny she was – how she gasped in pain at Sansa’s touch. The other woman – Asha – was at Jeyne’s side a moment later, helping Sansa to support her. 

“Asha?”

The woman nodded. “Greyjoy. Theon’s sister.”

Sansa bit back her anger. She focused on Jeyne. Her friend needed her. Jeyne. Dear, dear Jeyne. 

“Val’s tent is this way,” Sansa nodded. “She’ll help you with any injuries. We’ll get food and new clothing. I’ll have to-”

She was cut off by Jeyne’s scream. The woman’s body went slack, pulling backward – pulling away. She screamed again. 

“Jeyne?” Sansa asked, frantic. “What is it what’s wrong?”

The woman was shaking again, staring at something over Sansa’s shoulder. Asha pulled the hysterical woman into her arms as Sansa turned to find the source of Jeyne’s terror. Her gaze fell heavy on the retreating form of Petyr Baelish. She frowned, confused, before refocusing on Jeyne. Behind them, she could see Jon barking orders as men dragged Theon and the Baratheon soldiers away, Ghost hard on their heels. Asha Greyjoy was murmuring soft words, stroking Jeyne’s hair. Her eyes met Sansa’s. 

“What happened to her?” Sansa asked quietly. She was afraid of the answer. 

Asha shook her head. “Not here. Not now. Help me get her to your friend’s tent. She needs a healer. She needs rest. Gods, she needs rest. I’ll tell you then.” 

***** 

Three hours later, Sansa found herself hurtling across camp in a blind rage. Asha’s words ringing in her ears. Jeyne’s scars burning in her eyes. 

A truth too horrible to comprehend poisoning her heart. 

Jeyne. Dear, sweet Jeyne. 

Jeyne. No older than she. 

Jeyne. Who had also lost her father; her family; her home. 

Night had fallen over the camp – cold and dark and moonless. Sansa didn’t feel the bite of the cold or hear the din of the army as it settled for the evening. She didn’t bother explaining her presence to Jon’s sentries or asking them if the king was disposed. 

As it turned out, he was already hosting a visitor. The grimace on Howland Reed’s face curdled further when he saw her thunderous expression. “Lady Stark,” he murmured, bowing his head. “Your Grace.” Without another word he departed.

Jon turned to her, his face as dark as it ever was. 

“I want him dead, Jon,” she spit. Rage coursed through her stronger than winter storm. “I want him _dead_ and I want him to _suffer_.”

Jon’s eyes shadowed. In three stride he was looming over her. “Who?”

“_Ramsay Snow._” Sansa hissed. His name tasted like blood in her mouth. “I want you to _kill_ him, Jon.”

For the briefest moment, Jon’s eyes darted to her lips. “That was always my intention, Sansa. It’s been my intention since I was told he had our sister.” His voice was low and black and almost enough to pull the venom from Sansa’s veins. Tears spilled from her eyes as she reached out and clutched at Jon’s jerkin. 

“Do you _know_ what he did to her? To Jeyne? To my dear Jeyne?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes, I’ve been told.”

“_I want him dead._ I want you to beat him bloody – I want him to know _no_ mercy, Jon. None. I wish to the gods I could do it myself! What he took from _us_ – _ what he took from Jeyne…_ Show him no mercy!”

Suddenly, Jon’s hands cupped her jaw, tugging her closer. “I’ll rip his throat out,” he snarled, voice low and dangerous in a way that made Sansa shudder. He was so close now she could taste his hateful breath on her lips. “I’ll kill him with my hands, not my blade. I’ll make him regret so much as _looking_ at Jeyne. I’ll make him wish he’d never seen Winterfell.”

Her fingers slipped from his jerkin to his jaw, tangling in his beard and dragging him down until his forehead rested against her own. Tears were flowing down her cheeks now, fueled by an anger she could barely put words to. It was if everything that had been building in her chest since the moment Lady was killed had exploded outwards, poisoning her blood with the unknowable wrath and insurmountable sorrow of lost innocence. This final, pure memory of home – sweet Jeyne, her oldest friend, her constant companion, the sister Arya hadn’t been – had so cruelly been twisted and torn by the darkness of the world. The darkness of the south and of the game and of _men_. A sob ripped from her throat then. It was the summation of all her losses but most of all the loss of the world she thought she inhabited as a girl. The world where knights were true and good always triumphed and fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters lived to watch little girls grow up. 

“Sansa,” Jon murmured, voice wrecked with emotion. “Sansa.” He tugged her into his body, curling around her smaller form protectively. His hand cradled her head against his chest with gentle fingers as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling, pulling, pulling. 

“She was my friend,” Sansa whimpered, her sobs muffled against Jon’s body. “She was only a girl and they took her. They made her do… the things they made her do, Jon.”

“It will be avenged,” he growled. 

Sansa turned her head into his chest. “It isn’t enough. It’s done. It can’t be undone. I _hate_ them, Jon. _I hate all of them._. The south, the Lannisters, the Boltons. _I hate them_.”

Her sobs wracked her body, as if physically pulling her grief away from her heart. Through it all – the tempest of her wrath and sorrow – Jon held her close and tight and gently in a way that a man like him shouldn’t have been capable of doing. 

Men were not gentle. Not soft. Not sweet or kind.

That was what the world had taught Sansa. What it had taught Jeyne. 

But Jon? Well, Jon was no man. Jon was a _wolf_. A Stark. Something more than these petty kings and lords of the south. Something more than the Boltons. 

Slowly, Sansa registered Jon pulling her backward; tugging her cloak from her shoulders; slipping the pins from her hair; pushing her to sit on his bed. He released her from his grip only long enough to bend and remove her boots. “What are you doing?” Sansa sniffled, wiping furiously at her eyes. Her voice came out harsh and raspy; twisted with tears. She watched as Jon stilled. As his face reddened slightly. 

“I just… I thought it might comfort you.”

“What?”

Finally, his gaze met her own again. Dark eyes searching her face for rejection. “How you’ve comforted me.” Jon looked down at the bed then, before finding her eyes once more. “Being close. Being near.” 

Sansa bit her lip and tentatively reached out a hand to cup Jon’s cheek. More tears spilled from her eyes as she watched him close his, felt his jaw tense beneath her touch. “When did you learn the world is cruel?” 

Jon opened his eyes and looked at her for a long moment. His hands dropped from her boots; one coming to rest atop her fingers on his jaw, the other gripping her knee. “When I was a boy. From what I remember, I remember knowing that.”

She swallowed and looked down, suddenly unable to meet his eye. 

“But I think I truly learned it at the Wall. Beyond the Wall. In death.” His fingers tightened on her own, pulling her gaze up again. When Sansa found his eyes they were soft; a contrast to his calloused hands. “It isn’t all cruel, though, Sansa. There is goodness.”

“How? Where?” she whispered, reining in another sob. “How can there be any goodness? Jeyne was good. Jeyne never did anything to deserve what happened to her.”

Jon sighed. “It doesn’t work like that. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t goodness. You taught me there is still goodness. I didn't believe it either until you returned.”

Sansa frowned, confused. Slowly, Jon turned his face until his lips brushed the hand she still had cupped on his jaw. Gently, oh so painfully gently, he pressed a kiss to her palm. Warmth spread through Sansa, coloring her cheeks and parting her lips. He rose then, letting their hands fall away from each other, and blew out the candles that lit his tent. Sansa watched his shadow move, emotions battling within her chest. How she could feel so overwhelmed with affection while at the same time still be reeling with hatred was confounding. Before long he loomed over her once more, tugging her up and then nudging her down into his furs. She let herself collapse into the bed willingly; let Jon pull her onto his chest; let him wrap his arms tightly around her until the world narrowed down to his warmth and his scent and his steady breaths. 

“Jeyne is safe now,” Jon muttered after a long moment. “You are safe now. In a matter of days, we will reach Winterfell. Ramsay will be dead by my hands, his blood in the snow, and you will be home.” 

She sniffled, clutching at him. “And you will be home," she murmured. 

Jon’s arms tightened around her. The hand on her waist slipped down to her hip. “And I will be home.”

“And we will be married.”

Sansa felt more than heard his breath stutter. It caused her belly to tighten low and deep. “Aye,” Jon said after a long moment. “And we will be married.”

“And we will make all those who harmed us – who harmed those we love – feel our wrath.”

Jon was silent for a long moment. 

“Aye,” he growled finally. His deep northern brogue was little more than a veritable snarl. “Winter will come for those who harmed House Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shivers* 
> 
> We are almost at Winterfell. So so so so so so so so so so close. Then I FINALLY get to focus on marriage and dealing with a certain man from the Fingers. 
> 
> ALSO I purposely avoided having to explain what happens to Jeyne. Book readers know and show watchers – After Ned is imprisoned, Jeyne is taken from Sansa and its heavily implied that Petyr employs/imprisons her in one of his brothels. Later on, she is sent to Winterfell as "Arya" to marry Ramsay and solidify Bolton control of the North. You can imagine what happens next - it is essentially what happens to Sansa, but the books go even darker both explicitly and implicitly. Jeyne and Theon eventually escape with the help of Mance (who isn't dead) and shieldmaidens who were sent by Jon to save who he believes to be Arya. They meet up with Stannis who has Asha imprisoned. 
> 
> For my mental health, I didn’t want to have to explain it – I’m sorry if it felt like I cheated, because I did, but it was not out of laziness. Jeyne’s fate doesn’t deserve being repeated. My biggest issue with the books is Jeyne’s fate, and if she doesn’t get a happier ending by a Dream of Spring, I’m suing the whole damn world. (I’m also giving her one here, beginning with having Val, Asha, and Sansa at her side). 
> 
> Also for show watchers - Asha is Yara, they changed her name in the show because ????????? Honestly, this chapter is where you might start having problems if you haven't read the books. If you have any questions let me know, I'd be happy to answer where we find Theon, Jeyne, Asha, and Stannis at the end of ADWD.


	18. xviii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know I know I know 
> 
> It’s been a month. I don’t have any excuses. I was in the middle of finals and then traveling home and then being home and believe me I thought multiple times a day “wow I really need to work on my WIP” and then I didn’t and I’m so sorry. 
> 
> I’m hoping to be more regular from here on, and I’m sorry if I fail at that. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and your love and I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season.

The cold woke Sansa, washing over her in icy waves that bit at the warmth she’d been surrounded by through the night. She cracked her eyes open as she snuggled deeper into the still warm furs and yawned. A dark figure was moving in the early morning light – securing a heavy black cloak; pulling on large leather gloves; strapping a sword to its back. Ghost stood patiently near the tent’s flap looking so very much like the specter for which he was named. 

“Where are you going?” Sansa’s voice came out raw and bruised. The sound of it ushered memories of the night before. Of Jeyne and her fate. Of how Sansa had finally, finally let herself break. Her fingers twisted in the furs. 

Jon watched her carefully in the half-light as he slipped a dagger in his belt. He still hadn’t tied his hair back for the day, and Sansa found herself itching to run her fingers through the dark, tangled curls that nearly reached past his shoulders now. He’d need to cut his hair before their wedding. Like this, his hair resembled little more than a bird’s nest – the way Arya’s once had. Squinting in the dim pre-dawn light, Sansa tried to remember her little sister; tried to examine Jon’s resemblance to Arya. A part of her had always been jealous that he’d won her only sister’s affections when she and Arya could scarce go an hour without squabbling as girls. A familiar pang of loss and anger and sadness shot through her heart at the thought of her sister. Oh, how she missed her – tangles and squabbles and all. 

Gods, what would Arya think of her now? What would she say if she knew Sansa was waking in Jon’s bed? That in less than a moon they would be wed? A blush spread over Sansa’s cheeks then, and she was grateful for the darkness as Jon moved closer; coming to crouch beside the bed so he was level with her. 

“Go back to sleep, it’s barely light yet. Satin will wake you in time to take you to your tent before anyone notices.”

She frowned and let her hand snake out from the furs to curl around the leather of Jon’s cloak. “I asked where you are going.”

Jon looked away from her then. After a long moment, he sighed and told her, voice quiet and shameful. “Ghost and I are going hunting.”

Sansa pushed away the wave of revulsion that roiled through her as the meaning of his words hit; as the image of him with blood in his mouth filled her mind. When she moved her hands to his jaw, tugging his attention back to her, it was as much to ground herself as it was to ground him. For a few quiet moments, they stayed like that, peering at each other in the darkness as if both wondering who would break first – his shame or her fear.

Finally, Sansa pushed the words from her mouth. “Jon, when we are back in Winterfell this has to stop.” 

The warm breath of his sigh touched her lips. “I know.”

“We’ll have to host feasts; more intimate dinners with guests too, just like mother and father did.”

“_I know_, Sansa.”

She sat up then; her fingers never leaving the roughness of Jon’s beard. He remained kneeling by the bed, his ash dark eyes peering up at her in the gloom. “We should discuss how to win the lords back to your favor – how to deal with Baelish and what will happen once we are home. We’ve delayed too long already.” Sansa let her thumb brush over his cheek. “Call for breakfast, instead,” she added softly. “We can talk over breakfast. Don’t disappear again. It doesn’t help you, Jon. The – the _hunting_ doesn’t help either.”

His large, gloved hand came to rest on the wrist raised to his jaw. “It clears my mind,” he told her, voice dark and still tinged in shame. “Sometimes I just can’t take the din of camp – people always needing me…” He sighed again and tugged her hand away from him, resting it gently on the bed. “It’s just easier sometimes to live like Ghost.”

Sansa turned her hand beneath his, catching his fingers and tightening her grip before he could stand or pull away. “You’ll be away from the din in here. It will just be you and me.”

“Sansa-”

“It isn’t enough we marry,” she hissed, voice coming out harsher than expected – little more than a sharp rasp in her sob-sore throat. Jon’s eyes widened. “We’ve discussed this Jon. You need to find your way back to yourself. More than you already have. You need to repair the damage with the lords. Disappearing this morning is not going to help that. If you want to be a good king-”

“I don’t even want to be king.”

“That’s a lie.” Jon stood abruptly, trying to pull his hand from hers, but Sansa remained steadfast in her grip. “I see through the lie, Jon. You don’t want to be feared – to be rejected. I see you trying – I do – but it isn’t enough.” 

Jon yanked his hand from her own. “No, nothing I do ever seems to be enough.”

“_Jon._” 

He set his shoulders; face unreadable in the gloom. 

“Please,” she whispered, simple and soft and sweet. 

“I’m sorry.” Ghost was hard on Jon’s heels as he stalked out of the tent. Sansa deflated into the bed in defeat, worry and anger gnawing at her heart as the warm flush of tears returned to her eyes. She thought again of her little sister and in that moment, there was nothing more in the world Sansa Stark wanted than to see Arya Underfoot once more. Arya would have no qualms about yelling at Jon. Arya would already be racing out of the tent to drag him back inside. 

Arya had always been bold and outspoken and reactionary. It had irritated Sansa as a girl, but only because those were qualities she’d sometimes wished she had too. With a huff of irritation, Sansa let herself fall back into Jon’s warm furs and breathed, “He’s such an ass, Arya,” to the quiet, empty tent. “A stupid, stubborn ass.”

***** 

After dragging herself from Jon’s bed, Sansa swiftly dressed in her tent and made her way across camp just as the sun’s rays began to turn the snow pink. Her toes crunched as her heavy boots broke the icy top layer of snow. Despite the dark emotions churning in her, Sansa made a point of smiling at the various people she passed. Septa Mordane had always told her a smile was a lady’s best gift. She’d told Jeyne the same thing, although Jeyne was no lady-to-be. Clutching at her skirts, Sansa wondered if Jeyne remembered that lesson – if she’d ever thought of it during their years apart. 

She wondered how Jeyne had survived what the world had thrown at her. 

She wondered how different things may have been if they hadn’t been separated – if she’d had Jeyne in the Vale and the Lannisters had never sent her dear friend to a _brothel_ and then to the insidious Boltons. 

If their fathers had not died and they had grown into womanhood together in King’s Landing. 

If they had never left Winterfell at all and Sansa had simply been content with her northern life. 

Anger welled in her gut again. _Stupid, stupid girl._ If only she’d been satisfied with what she’d had. Then perhaps they would never have gone south. Then perhaps all the Starks would still be alive. Then perhaps Jeyne would have had a happier life. 

Val, Jeyne, and Asha were already breaking their fast in Val’s tent when Sansa arrived. It was a simple meal of the dark, hearty bread favored by the free folk, some smoked fish, and an earthy tea that Val always seemed to have on hand. “Sansa,” Val smiled, beckoning her over. “Join us.”

Sansa smiled as she took a seat at the small table and helped herself to some tea. “How are you feeling?” she asked Asha and Jeyne. 

“Warmer,” Asha smirked. “A good deal warmer.”

Jeyne just smiled in a small, reserved way that was so unlike the girl Sansa remembered. 

“We will be back in Winterfell soon,” Sansa said after a moment of awkward silence. “Lord Reed told me so yesterday morning.”

Asha nodded. “Aye, it isn’t far from here.”

Sansa looked to Jeyne again. The woman’s face was pale and withdrawn. “Jeyne?” she asked, desperate to connect with the woman. “Do you like the tea?”

Her old friend glanced at her and nodded. 

Gently, Val reached out and grasped Sansa’s hand, squeezing it reassuringly with a kind smile on her face. Swallowing back tears, Sansa squeezed her hand back. This Jeyne was so very unlike her own Jeyne. The outspoken, snarky, fun Jeyne of her youth who used to spend hours gossiping with her over needlework. 

“Jeyne was just remarking on how lovely the dress you lent her is,” Val said, helping herself to another piece of bread. “Though I don’t think Asha cares for her gown.”

Asha smirked at Val. “I much prefer the way you dress, wildling. I don’t know how ladies get anything done in these bleeding gowns.”

Val barked out a laugh as Sansa hid a smile by sipping at her tea. “I’m glad you appreciate the dress, Jeyne,” she said. “It’s yours if you’d like it. I have plenty and have plans to make many more once I’m back in a proper keep. Perhaps you and I can form a sewing circle like our mothers had when we were girls.” 

Jeyne finally perked up then, looking up from her untouched bread with a hopeful glint in her eye. “Oh yes, I’d like that very much. Oh, you use to make the most beautiful things, Sansa.”

“As did you! Remember when mother let us help her with the tapestry of Jonquil and her sisters? I don’t think we ever saw it finished. Perhaps some maid tucked it away somewhere.”

“My mother tried so desperately to force needlework on me,” Asha chuckled. “Gods was she disappointed that I was her only daughter.”

Sansa smiled. “I had a sister much like that.”

“Arya Underfoot,” Jeyne whispered. “Arya.” Tears welled in her eyes suddenly. Sansa could feel them reflected in her own. 

“My sister Dalla was wonderful at embroidery,” Val said quietly. “I always tried to learn, but never got the knack for it. Our mother had learned it from her mother, who was stolen from the south in a raid. I was always better at making a good poultice though.” 

Asha grinned. “I was always better at seafaring than my brothers. Drove them wild.”

“I’ve always wanted to sail,” Val remarked, nail tapping against her cup of tea. 

Soon the conversation began to churn – gliding from talk of sailing to memories of childhood to hopes of the future to gossip around camp. Before long Sansa felt herself forget about the heartache of the night before and for the first time since she’d left Myranda and Mya in the Vale, she felt like any ordinary woman sitting and chatting with her friends. When Val managed to coax a laugh out of Jeyne by relaying one of Tormund’s more outlandish stories, Sansa’s heart swelled with happiness. 

“Excuse me? Lady Stark?”

The conversation abruptly ended, and Sansa turned back towards the entrance to the tent to see Satin peering in. “Yes?”

“His Grace requests you join him for dinner.”

It took all of Sansa’s strength to keep her from rolling her eyes as the reality of her life crashed back into focus. Val seemed to pick up on her frustration and smiled knowingly and kicked her gently under the table. 

“Thank you, Satin. I’ll be there.” 

Val was still smiling when she turned back to the table. “Your betrothed awaits," she laughed. 

“Your betrothed?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa blushed and avoided her old friend’s eye. She knew Jon was not her brother, but that was easier to believe when she wasn’t around people who had known them when they were brother and sister. How often had she and Jeyne remarked on Sansa’s _half-brother_, Jon Snow? “Yes,” Sansa finally answered, her eyes still on her hands. “Jon and I are to wed once we retake Winterfell.”

“_Jon_; Jon Snow?”

“The very same,” Val smirked. 

Sansa finally met Jeyne’s gaze. Her old friend’s eyes were wide as saucers. “But – but you can’t! He’s your brother!” 

“Cousin,” Sansa winced. “Did the news not reach Stannis?” 

“We’ve been on our own for months,” Asha said. “Surviving as best we could. We don’t know much of anything about the wars. Much of anything at all.” 

“Jon Snow is no Stark, after all.” 

Sansa shot Val a look. “Jon is a Stark. He just isn’t my father’s son.” She turned back to Jeyne with a sigh. “Father named Jon his bastard to keep him safe from Robert Baratheon. He’s the bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen and my aunt, Lyanna Stark.” 

Jeyne’s mouth parted in shock. Asha let out a low curse and leaned back in her seat. 

“He doesn’t look like a Targaryen,” Jeyne muttered. 

“No,” Sansa replied. “No, he doesn’t. I suppose that was a great relief to my father.” 

“A hidden Targaryen prince. It’s just like the stories we loved as girls.” 

Val snorted. “Oh yes, he’s quite the prince.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes again and bit her lip. Quite the prince, indeed. 

***** 

When Sansa arrived at Jon’s tent that night, several lords were already seated at the war table. The huge map had been removed and replaced with a mixture of bread, salted meats, stewed vegetables, and ale. 

The moment she entered Jon’s gaze found her own. There was a note of desperation in his dark eyes – a touch of fear too – and it was almost enough to wash away her irritation with him after the morning. 

“Ah, Lady Stark,” Lord Manderly grinned. “We were told you’d be joining us this evening. What a treat.” 

Sansa smiled, tearing her eyes from Jon’s. “It is a treat for me as well, my lord. I hear that we will soon be dining in Winterfell thanks to the bravery of you and your men.” 

“Hear, hear,” another lord chuckled, raising his mug of ale for a toast. 

Sansa scanned the faces around the table, surprised to find many of them belonged to Jon’s most outspoken critics. She turned back to her cousin; brows drawn. “What is the occasion for this supper, your Grace?” Sansa asked as she took her seat to Jon’s right. 

He glanced at her sheepishly. “I was reminded of how your father use to host his lords for dinner when they visited. He taught Robb and I the importance of seeking not just his lords’ counsel, but their friendship as well. I thought it was past time I do the same.” 

She bit her lip to keep from smiling. So, the ass had listened after all. “A wise idea, your Grace. I look forward to keeping the tradition once we have our home back.” When Sansa looked out over the table, she was met with the curious looks of lords who steadily backed Baelish’s plot. As her eyes met theirs, she smiled a little wider. Jon had chosen his dinner companions well. She hadn’t even told him the principle plotters. He’d known exactly where his weakest points were. Glancing at the king, she nudged his knee with her own under the table and offered him a gentle smile. Jon pressed his knee back against her own before reaching forward and helping himself to some stew as he asked Lord Liddle about his sons. The frowning lord’s eyes widened in shock and he stumbled over his words as a friendly conversation began to blossom. 

There were moments when Jon faltered; when panic entered his eyes and his warm leg pressed against Sansa’s more firmly. In those moments, Sansa easily swooped in with a compliment or new topic or small remark about the food; easily directing the conversation away from the king and to some other, safer matter. After a while, Sansa even found herself enjoying the conversation and happily smiling and sipping at her ale. No moment was as wonderful, however, than when Sansa saw Jon take a bite of his stew, and then another. Perhaps it was her second helping of ale or the way his thigh was still pressed firmly against her own or just how very much he looked like Father seated there with his lords, but Sansa couldn’t help but reach across the table in plain view of the lords to squeeze his hand gently. 

As the night wore on, the lords began to take their leave. Lord Liddle was the last to go. He watched Manderly disappear through the tent’s flap before turning to Jon with a strange expression on his face. “I must admit, your Grace. I was surprised to receive an invitation tonight.” 

Jon nodded tightly. “You and I have not seen eye to eye, my lord, and I know I’ve been rather… brash with you.” 

_Liddle rubbed at his throat; his eyes narrowed. “Well, your Grace-“_

“There’s no excuse for my behavior.” Jon cleared his throat. “I apologize, my Lord. It was unbecoming of a king and liege lord. Eddard Stark taught me better.” He turned to Sansa then. “My cousin has been wise enough to point out my failings. I hope that you and I can come to some reconciliation.” 

Liddle nodded, his eyes flitting to Sansa momentarily. “Aye, you Grace. I hope so as well.” 

Jon stood then, crossing round the table as Lord Liddle stood. Sansa watched, hands clasped tightly under the table, as the men shook hands. Nothing could stop the grin that began to spread across her cheeks as Jon walked Lord Liddle to the exit. As soon as the last lord had left, Jon turned back to her, a guarded look on his face. Sansa grinned at him and sipped at her ale. “I’m proud of you, your Grace.” 

His gaze fell to the floor, but despite his best attempt to do so, Jon couldn’t hide the small smile that bloomed on his lips as a blush spread across his cheeks. “I’m sorry about this morning.” 

Sansa set down her ale and rose, gliding over to him in a drink-warmed haze. Gently, she cupped his jaw and raised his head until their eyes met. “I don’t expect you to be perfect, Jon. You listened to my advice. You thought about it. You acted on it.” Her smile grew then as warmth spread through her in a sudden swell of affection. “You even ate some stew.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head. Sansa let her thumb gently brush against the smile still gracing his lips. “I like it when you smile.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“I’m _tipsy_.” 

Jon smiled wider and dropped his head until their foreheads met. “You’re drunk.” 

Instead of arguing with him, Sansa hummed contentedly as she breathed him in; basked in his warmth and the feel of his jaw beneath her fingers. They stood like that for a moment. Silently occupying each other’s space. In a week or so they'd be wed. They'd kneel before the heart tree and swear their lives to each other. The thought made Sansa giggle and bump Jon's nose with her own. “Will you dance with me?” 

Jon pulled away slightly. “What? Now?” 

“No, when we marry.” 

She watched as his face softened. “Only if you get _me_ drunk.” 

“I’m not drunk,” Sansa laughed, rolling her eyes. She tugged at his beard. “You need to trim your beard. And your hair.” Her hands slipped into his curls and Sansa watched in fascination as his eyes closed and his mouth parted. The sight made her bite her lip. Okay, _maybe_ she was a little drunk. “You look like Arya,” she murmured. "With your hair all a mess like that." 

Jon opened his eyes then; grey irises filled with sadness. “I miss her,” he sighed. 

Sansa tugged him closer to her again and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “What do you think she’d say if she knew we were to wed soon?” 

Jon scoffed. “I try not think about what our – your family would think.” 

She frowned, but before she could reply they were interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Parting suddenly, as if caught misbehaving, Jon and Sansa turned to see Lord Reed in the entryway, his eyes on the floor even as a small smile played at his lips. 

“Pardon me, your Grace, my lady. His Grace asked that I brief him on what we’ve learned from Theon Greyjoy after dinner ended.” 

Sansa turned to Jon; watched as his face hardened back into that feral look that had become so familiar. She touched his arm gently. “I should check on Jeyne. I should like to hear what Theon says on the morrow, though.” 

Jon looked down at her and nodded. “Thank you for coming tonight.” 

Another wave of warm affection surged through Sansa and she dropped her hand down his arm to grab and squeeze his large, calloused hand. “Thank you.” Then, before she could lose her nerve, she rose to her tiptoes and pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, your Grace.” 

“Goodnight, Lady Stark.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look listen here pals Jon’s not perfect none of us are so don’t come for my boy who just needed his alone time and some raw meat okay he’s doing his best okay 
> 
> Sorry if I bored you with the girl talk but I wasn’t bored with girl talk and firmly believe that the best thing in life is female friendship :’) 
> 
> Next chapter we finally FINALLY F I NA LL Y F I N A L L Y f in a l ly ((((see)))) Winterfell


	19. xix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an angsty garbage fire, but I hope you like it. Sorry for being a drama mama.

For years, Winterfell was a dream. 

There were days – weeks even – when Sansa thought that was all it was. Had it ever really been real? Were those golden, summer days of her youth some dream conjured by her wishful heart? Surely the world hadn’t been that good once. Full of picked flowers from her mother’s glasshouses and splashing in the hot springs and chasing her sister and brothers through fresh-fallen summer snow. Feasts in the great hall with her mother and father and traveling knights and lords. Sewing circles and warm bread from the kitchens and direwolf pups and dancing lessons. No touch of sadness or grief. No fear of men or monsters. 

No loss. 

A perfect childhood full of foolish fancies and idealistic daydreams. 

Sunshine and warmth and happiness. 

Laughter and hugs. 

Father, mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon. 

Old Nan. 

Jeyne. Beth. 

Lady. 

Jon. 

It loomed before her now, rising with the gentle sloping hills as fog hovered above the snows in the early dawn light. A mass of grey stone turned black by the shadows of morning. She’d heard it had been burned. Destroyed. Sacked. Occupied. But from here, it looked as she remembered. Tall and imposing. Safe. Home. If she looked close enough, she could see roofs missing from towers; see scorches on stone. If she looked closely, she’d notice no Stark banners flapping in the wind. So she didn’t look closely. For a brief, delicious moment, Sansa Stark let herself imagine that her parents were in that castle. Alive and well. Preparing for the day. That Robb was waking and pulling on his boots, scratching Greywind under the chin. That Arya was already up to trouble. That Bran and Rickon were yawning out of their sweet dreams. Gods, she could still remember how it sounded in the morning. The birds and the cooks and the maids and the work beginning out in the yard. The shouts of her brothers and sister. The gentle humming of her mother. The rowdy breakfasts in her parent’s chambers or the family dining room. Her father muttering about the day’s work. Kissing her forehead before she ran off to harp lessons. 

A tear slipped down Sansa’s cheek. Then another. Another. Another. She brushed at them, lip trembling from the effort of holding in a sob. 

Winterfell was childhood. Winterfell was safety. Winterfell was everything she’d lost. 

For so, so long it had only been a dream, but now here it stood. Real. So close, so tangible. 

The sob escaped, the force of it making her drop to her knees and soaking her skirts in the snow. Oh what she would give for her parents to be in that castle. For Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon to be there waiting for her. Sansa clutched at herself, sobbing and struggling to breathe – the feeling of cold snow melting through her skirts only serving to make her cry more, evoking memories of snowball fights with Arya. Suddenly there was warmth at her back; warmth circling her. Soft fur and a wet, insistent nose pushing at her face until she gave way to the direwolf and opened herself to his presence. “Oh Ghost,” she cried, her fingers curling into his fur as she buried her face in his neck. “Do you remember it? Do you remember your brothers and sisters? Do you remember the godswood and the kennels and the keep?”

“Sansa.”

Still clutching at Ghost, Sansa looked up from his fur to see Jon standing above them, a somber look on his face. 

“I thought I would be happy, Jon.” She dropped her forehead down to rest on Ghost, tears still flowing freely. “I thought I would be so happy to see it but instead I’m so dreadfully sad.”

He knelt then, beside her, and pulled her from Ghost and into his arms. Sansa clutched at him desperately, breathing in his now familiar scent and grounding herself in the feel of his arms surrounding her. 

“It isn’t going to be the same, is it? All this time I’ve somehow thought that if only I could get back to Winterfell then it all would be okay – but they’ll always be gone. Things will always be broken and terrible. Oh, we never should have left. We never should have left at all.” 

Jon tugged her closer to him, pressing a kiss to her head just like father use to do. It made her cry even harder. “We’ll make it a home again. I promise. You and I. We’ll make it a home and maybe in time Arya and Bran and Rickon will find their way back. Theon said the boys are alive. Maybe they’ll come back.”

“It won’t be the same.”

“No, no it won’t.” He pulled away far enough that he could cradle her head, forcing Sansa to look into his face. Jon was crying too, quiet, stubborn tears. His face was clouded in grief and regret. “But you’ll be safe again. You’ll be home. Sansa, I promise you I’ll make you happy. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

Sansa pulled him into her, resting her forehead against his own. “Just come out of the battle alive. That’s all I need. Just don’t leave me all alone again. Don't leave me with a castle full of ghosts.”

Jon said nothing but pressed another kiss to her forehead before tugging her back against his chest; holding her as her grief came over her in waves. Grief for a childhood cut short. For a family lost forever. 

Yes, Winterfell was a dream. But she had a new one now. Soon she’d be a wife and a queen. Gods willing, she’d be a mother soon. Peace. That was all she wanted. Peace. For her and for Jon. For Jeyne and Val and Asha and Satin and all the others who had shown her such kindness. Peace.

***** 

That evening the camp was quiet. Scouts had seen the remaining Bolton loyalists preparing lines in the field before Wintertown and all were aware of what lay ahead when the day broke. Battle. _The battle_. The battle this whole campaign had led to and would end with. Here and there, there were patches of men reveling on what could be their last night, but most of the circles around the fires were somber. The looming shadow of Winterfell was a dark reminder of all the north had suffered over the years. It served as a harsh reminder to Sansa that the Starks were not the only family that had been destroyed by the wars; by the treachery of the south. 

She ducked into Jon’s tent, smiling at the now familiar guards posted outside. Ghost greeted her immediately by pushing his nose against her cheek – yet another thing that had become familiar over the past moons. For a moment she let him hold her attention as she reflected on how very much her life had changed since the journey back north. How all these things that had once felt so foreign now felt so familiar and those things once familiar now seemed foreign. 

She’d taken her supper with Petyr that evening; sipped at her soup politely as he rambled on about the wedding and their plans and the latest gossip he’d heard around camp and from his whisperers in the south. More rumors of Aegon Targaryen's progress in the Stormlands – a boy who would be Jon’s brother, if true. But Petyr had dismissed the news with a wave of his bony hand. “Everyone will be claiming dragon blood now,” he’d said. “Your cousin has inspired them. If one man can be a hidden Targaryen prince, why can’t another? At least our dear king has _proof_ of his birth. I’m not sure the same can be said of this lost son.”

“Corn! Corn, corn, corn!” Sansa looked up from Ghost to see Jon pushing his raven from his shoulder as he moved from his war table. He had a frown on his face, which wasn’t all that surprising. All the same, it worried her. 

“Have the plans been made then?” she asked. 

He nodded glumly. “Aye.” With a sigh, he rubbed at his eyes. “Theon’s information helped – if it proves true that is. We should have the numbers, but they have the better end of the pitch. The high ground as well as Winterfell’s defenses. He doesn’t think they can hold a siege though, so we should be able to break through. Of course, that means even if we win the castle, we’ll have to find a way to feed our army without constantly being on the move.”

Sansa looked over the mapped-out battle plans and let her fingers trace the blocks representing the Stark bannermen and the Knights of the Vale she and Petyr had brought with them. “We will figure that out when we are home,” she muttered. “For now, let’s only worry about getting home.”

Jon sighed again and came to stand beside her, resting his hands on the table. “Sansa – if I don’t… If It doesn’t go our way then-“

“Don’t,” Sansa said harshly, suddenly turning and holding up a hand to his lips. “Don’t talk like that.”

Gently, Jon pulled her fingers away and twined them with his own. “We must, Sansa.”

All of a sudden, Sansa’s throat felt too tight. Her eyes burned with tears. “You’ll come back,” she whispered stubbornly. “You always have. It won’t be different now. You’ll come back and we’ll go home together. This is no different than those other times.”

Jon smiled a little sadly and squeezed her hand, looking out over the map of battle. “We’re throwing everything we have at them, but they’ll be doing the same. All those other battles – they’ve been in an open pitch. Winterfell is a different beast. I’ve made arrangements with Lord Reed about the line of succession. Obviously, it falls to you. If we lose the day, I’ve had him make arrangements to get you away from here.” 

Sansa used the hand that wasn’t clinging to Jon’s to turn his face back to her. “You’ll come back. You must.”

He looked at her for a long moment then; dark grey eyes roaming her face. When they landed on her lips a thrill rattled through her bones. It was in that moment that she realized she didn’t just want him to come home because he was all she had left of what Winterfell had once been. It wasn’t the safety of Jon – the familiarity of his look and his accent and their shared childhood, even if he couldn’t remember it as she could. It was more than that. So much more than that. The affection that had blossomed for him over the past weeks was more than nostalgia for a tattered childhood; an innocence lost too soon. “Jon,” she whispered, leaning into his warmth until she could feel his breath on her lips. Slowly, Sansa closed her eyes and parted her lips. Jon’s hands cupped her face – big and warm and calloused in a delicious way that too had grown so familiar. 

“Your Grace!” 

His warmth was gone in an instant; replaced with a rush of cold as the opening of the tent’s flap brought a gust of cold, winter air into the space. Satin looked at the ground, a blush coloring his cheeks that Sansa was sure was matched on her own. “My apologies, your Grace. You asked Lord Forrester to bring you a count of our archers. He’s here.”

Sansa turned to Jon. He was gripping the table behind him, knuckles white with strain. Nodding tightly at Satin, he glanced her way but wouldn’t meet her eye. “You’re welcome to stay if-”

“No,” Sansa interrupted, already moving to leave. “No, I’ll leave you to it.” Just before she reached the flap, however, she turned back to him and clutched at her skirts, suddenly nervous. “Though – if you wouldn’t mind – perhaps I could dress you? In the morning,” she blushed. “Arm you that is – as I did once before. I should like to see you again before… before it all happens.”

She watched his jaw and shoulders tense, but Jon nodded. “Aye. I’d… I’d like that.”

“Goodnight, your Grace.”

Finally, Jon met her eyes. “Goodnight, Lady Stark.” 

She smiled gently at him and then disappeared into the night. 

***** 

Sansa rose with the dawn and made her way to Jon’s tent. The air was tense with the impending battle – taut and drawn like a bow. It felt as if the whole camp was on the precipice of some great cliff. For a moment, it felt as if she was still teetering on that bridge of ice back in the Vale. Anxiously, Sansa tugged at the small strip of cloth and silk in her hands. She’d stayed up most of the night working on it by the light of a small candle. It was far from her finest work – just a small scrap cobbled together with bits and pieces of her own gowns and a pair of stockings, but until she was back in a keep it was the best she could do. Running her fingers over the even stitches, she worried that he’d think it was silly of her. Romantic and childish and foolish. Something that she would have done as a girl. She bit her lip and pushed aside the flap of Jon’s tent, stashing the strip of cloth in a pocket. 

The king was dressed and seated on his bed, head in his hands with Ghost curled around him. When his raven saw her, it began to squawk out all the words it knew – corn and snow and dead and king. She frowned and turned her attention back to Jon. He was looking up at her now, face folded in on itself in a way it hadn’t been since those first weeks they’d been together again. There were bruises under his eyes that told her she hadn’t been the only one to get barely a wink of sleep. 

“You’ll have to guide me again,” she murmured, coming to a stop just before him. “I hardly remember what to do, and we must make sure your armor is secure.” As if acting of their own accord, her fingers wound into his hair; brushing it away from his forehead; lightly scraping her nails along his scalp in the way that always made him close his eyes. Her own eyes widened as Jon clutched at her thighs and rested his head against her belly. His warm breath fanned across her waist making a blush color her cheeks. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked quietly, afraid her voice would break the fragile moment that had suddenly cocooned them. 

Jon stayed quiet but shook his head against her. His hands tightened. “I’m so scared, Sansa,” he finally whispered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared.” 

Sansa bit her lip and willed her tears to wait. She wanted to be strong for him. Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees until she was peering up at his worry-lined face with her hands resting on his legs. He cupped her face in his hands like he had the night before, smoothing his thumbs over the apples of her cheeks. “What if I’m not strong enough? What if I haven’t done enough?” A tear slipped down his cheek. “Sansa, what if we lose?”

“We won’t, Jon. The gods are on our side. They must be.”

He scoffed. “They haven’t been for the last few years. I’m not sure they ever were on _my_ side.”

“Well,” Sansa murmured. “If we lose, then we lose. We’ll figure it out.”

Jon pursed his lips. “The Starks have held Winterfell for 8,000 years. If I don’t win it back… if I can’t protect you…” Another tear slipped and he looked away, roughly brushing at his face. “I’m not a Stark, Sansa. You’re the only one. The whole family could end today all because I’m not good enough. I haven’t prepared enough, or I haven’t trusted the right people or… or I’ve been such a _monster_ since I came back. I failed as Lord Commander and I’m failing as King. I _can’t_ fail at this.” 

“And you won’t,” Sansa told him, and somehow she believed it. He would not fail. He simply wouldn’t. “The world has taken enough from us. I have to believe that it has finally come our time to win.” She reached up and brushed a stray tear from his cheek. “I believe in you, Jon. And you didn’t fail as Lord Commander or as King. You _didn’t_. You did what you believed was right. You still are doing that. You’ve made mistakes, yes, but that doesn’t mean you failed.” 

Jon closed his eyes. His next words were barely a whisper. “I don’t want to fail you.”

Sansa inhaled tightly, then pulled his head to her shoulder so he couldn’t see the tears she was worried would fall. “You won’t. You couldn’t, even if you tried. I told you, Jon. I don’t care about Winterfell anymore. Just stay alive. That’s enough.”

They stayed like that for a long while – clutching at each other as the camp rose around them. Soon their breathing was drowned out by the clatter of armor and shouts for horses and the din of weapons being sharpened; distributed. Finally, Jon sighed and pulled away – roughly rubbing at his eyes. “I need to arm.” 

Sansa nodded and stood, moving towards where his armor was piled. Slowly they went through the motions – Jon directing her as she placed and secured and tightened. It felt just as intimate as it had before, but with a heavier weight of gravity now. At last, when the final bits had been fastened, Sansa reached into her pocket. 

“I made something for you,” she murmured. “I hope you don’t think it terribly silly of me.”

Jon tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear, his eyes warm and heavy and soft. “Never.”

She tried to smile as she pulled the small strip of cloth from her pocket. It was white – torn from the hem of a gown. Through the night she’d embroidered a snarling grey direwolf on it with twisting silver branches and blood-red leaves extended from the center. “In all my favorite stories and songs, ladies give their heroes tokens before battle. It’s not very well made and it’s not much – and despite what you say I know it is a bit girlish and silly – but I thought… Well I can’t be out there with you so I thought perhaps it would bring you luck.” 

Gently, as if touching a precious treasure, Jon ran his armored fingers along the little strip of fabric. “It's… it’s beautiful,” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “You made this?”

She nodded. “Last night. I couldn’t sleep either. Here,” she motioned to his arm, “let me tie it for you. 

Jon held out his sword arm and Sansa knotted the fabric around his steel-clad bicep. “There,” she murmured. “To remind you what you are fighting for – our home and our family. The Starks,” she looked him in the eye. “Of which you are one, no matter what you say.”

The look Jon gave her then was so intense – so serious – that she had to turn away. “Father would be proud of you, you know? Robb too. You’ve become a man to be proud of, Jon. One of the heroes from those silly songs I used to lose my head in all the time. No matter what happens today-” 

Jon’s lips were warm; both firm and soft when they met her own; insistent, but not demanding. Sansa let herself melt into him; let her hands rise to hold his bearded chin gently; let her lips part ever so slightly as sparks danced up and down her spine like a winter chill. For a wonderful moment, she forgot about the impending battle and about Winterfell and about all the troubles that lay ahead and behind. For a moment, she was the maid in a song kissing her love as if she’d never been kissed before. And truly, she’d never been kissed like _this_ before. Tender, and slow and soft, and with such reverence that it almost felt _too_ intimate despite the chastity of their mostly closed lips. 

A horn blared and suddenly Jon was pulling away must too fast and much too soon. His dark eyes were impossibly darker and blown wide. “Sansa – I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just-”

“Jon-”

“Your Grace, it’s time!”

Jon turned to the voice of Lord Reed and the gathering murmur of his lords and officers outside the tent. “I should go.”

“Jon-”

“Thank you for the favor,” he murmured. “I’ll wear it proudly.”

Tears were in her eyes suddenly, and instead of pushing through to tell him what she wanted to, Sansa swallowed the words. “I’ll be praying. With Val and Jeyne.”

Jon nodded and grabbed his helm. “I haven’t forgotten what I promised to you,” he muttered quickly, sheathing Longclaw behind his back. Ghost rose from the bed and shook his great white coat before coming to stand beside Jon. “About Ramsey.” Jon’s eyes flashed. “I’ll make him pay.”

Sansa shivered at the sudden feral look of his face; bit her lip and nodded. She followed him out of the tent; watched as he greeted his men; as he mounted his destrier. The strip of fabric on his arm rattled against his armor in the wind. Another horn blew – three hard, harsh noises in quick succession. Satin secured Jon’s shield to his arm. Ghost moved to Sansa then, brushing his nose against her cheek. She smiled and pressed a gentle kiss between his eyes. “Keep him safe, sweet boy,” she muttered. When she looked up, Jon was staring down at her. “Good luck, your Grace.” 

Jon’s jaw clenched as he maneuvered his horse towards the field. “I have all the luck I need, my lady, thanks to you.” He raised his sword arm bedecked with her embroidery. 

“King, king!” Jon’s raven squawked, startling Sansa as it landed on her shoulder. The sharp bite of its talons through her gown grounded her in the rising chaos of the assembling army. “King! Snow! Corn!” 

The horn blared again, and with one final, long look, Jon was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehe
> 
> Any thoughts????? Anything interesting happen?????


	20. xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a minute to thank you all for your comments. I know I don’t reply often on this fic, but I do read them and appreciate them and love all of you so much. I’m so glad you are still enjoying this story (that started as a drabble lolololol) and have stuck with me this far. We are SO CLOSE to the end now, and I’m happy to let you all know that I have a sequel’s plot all mapped out. I even have a TITLE for it, can you believe??? 
> 
> Also – lil bougie me knows absolutely NOTHING about battles and/or fights so please be gentle and use your imagination (I was a history major who exclusively studied women on the home front of the civil war so no, I know nothing about this kind of stuff) (especially *redacted* *someone’s* *redacted* *out*)

Eyes closed, Sansa let her head droop to rest on Jeyne’s shoulder. The woman gripped her hand tightly, still murmuring an old prayer to the Mother they’d learned as girls. The whispered words were muffled over the sound of Val’s mortar and pestle. The wildling seemed unable to sit still as they waited, choosing instead to prepare the salves they all knew would be needed once the battle was done. For the first few hours, Sansa had wandered the camp where the women, children, sick, and injured waited; sharing encouraging words and expressing her gratitude and calming frayed nerves. When the distant clash of metal on metal and the distant scream of war horns and dying horses became too much, her feet had led to her Val’s tent where she knew Jeyne would be waiting. 

“Sansa,” Jeyne whispered all of sudden, interrupting the prayer she’d been reciting. 

Blearily, Sansa opened her eyes and turned her head without raising it from her friend’s shoulder. “Yes?”

The grip on her hand tightened. “If… if we lose… I don’t want to go back. I can’t go back. Not alive.”

Anger and fear and sorrow coiled around Sansa so tightly she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Raising her head, she gripped Jeyne’s hands. “You won’t. We’ll get away. You’ll never see him again, Jeyne. I promise you. You and I will never be separated again. I’ll never let anything happen to you.” She could feel Val’s eyes on her, but the steady rhythm of the mortar and pestle continued. A few tears slipped down Jeyne’s cheeks as she nodded. Raising her shaking hands, Sansa brushed them from her friend’s face. “The king _will_ win, Jeyne. Have faith.”

Jeyne bit her lip. “He scares me, Sansa,” she whispered. “The king. I’ve heard such dreadful-”

Sansa opened her mouth to defend Jon, but before she could the sound of Val’s pestle dropping startled both her and Jeyne. The women looked towards the sound of the noise and saw Val staring at Petyr Baelish. 

“Gods man!” Val exclaimed, hastily wiping the mess the falling pestle had made. “Announce yourself next time! Don’t steal in like a thief in the night!” 

Lord Baelish glanced at her dismissively before turning to Sansa. “May I speak with you, Lady Stark?”

Sansa felt Jeyne freeze beside her; felt her began to shake; felt her friend grip her hands so tightly they hurt as she buried her face in Sansa’s shoulder. Petyr’s eyes never left her own, but Sansa could sense the irritation rolling off him. The lack of patience at Jeyne’s fear. She pressed a kiss to her friend’s head before rising. “I’ll be back Jeyne, Val will be here. You’re safe.” As if summoned, Val moved across the tent to take a seat by Jeyne’s side, exchanging a pointed look with Sansa. Anger coursed through her again as she thought of Ramsay – of how his cruel treatment had rendered sweet Jeyne terrified of nearly every man. If the gods were listening, Jon would be repaying Ramsay for his cruelty now. 

As Sansa followed Petyr out of the tent, she clenched her hands so tightly that her nails dug into the soft skin of her palms. The last thing in the world she wanted currently was to be in the presence of Petyr Baelish. It angered her too to see him – an able-bodied and still relatively young man – here with those who only didn’t fight because they could not. She knew he cared little for Winterfell, as much as he depended on Jon’s victory, and that knowledge made something black and mean snarl in her. He was a coward. Content with letting other’s do the hard work as he manipulated the results to best benefit him. How did she not see it before? For years she let herself believe he had her best interest at heart. For years, he’d had her fooled.

Petyr came to a stop outside his tent, holding the flap open for her. Sansa forced a pretty smile onto her face and ducked inside. “Have a seat, sweetling,” Petyr murmured behind her. “With all the king’s men out of camp, it is the perfect time to discuss our plan once we are in Winterfell. It will be harder to meet there; harder to avoid suspicion.” 

“You presume much, Lord Baelish. We don’t have Winterfell yet,” Sansa snapped.

Petyr paused where he stood pouring wine, his back to her. Despite her anger and frustration with the man, Sansa felt her stomach tighten in fear. He could still ruin her, she knew. He could still hurt Jon without her help. Easily, too easily. Gods, she had to be more careful. It was this battle. Her nerves were so frayed she could hardly think straight. It took everything in her not to focus on all she stood to lose. 

On the fact Jon could already be dead and she’d have no idea. 

“I apologize,” she murmured, voice sweet and innocent and dripping in sorrow. “I’m just so worried, Petyr. I’m so afraid of losing my home again. It will be so much more difficult for us if the king doesn’t secure Winterfell. I should not have raised my voice with you. Please, forgive me.” 

Petyr cocked his head and resumed his movements, the manicured nails of his free hand rapping against the wood of his table. “_Us_,” he repeated before glancing over his shoulder at her. His dark, beady eyes narrowed. “Us.” Grabbing the glasses of wine, he took a seat beside her. “There is only us, Sansa.”

Schooling her face, Sansa nodded and took the glass he offered. “Yes. From the day you saved me from the Lannisters until now, there is only you and me. Please, Petyr, I’m sorry that I snapped at you.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes still narrowed. “I heard a little rumor that the king tried to make amends recently – tried to win back some semblance of trust from his bannermen.” 

Sansa sipped at her wine. The truth. That was always the best weapon, was it not? Little truths that disguise the big lie. “Yes, it was my idea.”

Petyr’s eyebrows arched in question. “Counterintuitive, is it not?”

“I should have spoken with you first – but Jon is so brutishly possessive, you know.” Her stomach churned as she willed herself not to stumble over the poison of her next words. “When I speak with you, he grows so very… angry.” 

Baelish’s face paled. His lips thinned into a line. Sansa could have snapped with the glass with her own fingers then. How _dare_ he act appalled at the implication of her words when he himself had done so little for her during those months with Joffrey – when he himself had threatened her and hurt her and used her so often. How dare he act as if he were concerned for her wellbeing. 

“I just thought that we would be more successful in our endeavors if we could get the lords on the same page – Oh, Petyr, you mustn’t tell them what I just confessed to you about Jon’s anger. If you tell anyone that he is so very possessive, it will only make things harder.” She leaned in close then; willed the tears that had been behind her eyes all day to finally fall. Her toes curled in her boots. “We spoke of eliminating Jon without having to deal with the fallout from a coup – no? It occurred to me the other day that we will be much more successful if there is no cause for suspicion. With the lords split in such factions, a sudden death of a healthy, young king could lead to complications. Would it not be better that the lords supporting the king don’t have cause to suspect those who have a fractured relationship with him? I suggested he make amends so that our plan can be executed more smoothly.” She had made the plan up on the spot, and Sansa was aware of the holes in her excuses. If Jon began to display better behavior – surely some of the lords who had declared for her might be swayed back. It was a clear, gaping problem. One she feared could be the undoing of all her weeks of playing a dangerous game. 

Petyr looked at her for a long moment, one long, bony finger tapping at his chin just above his delicately pointed goatee. “I’d thought it more in our favor that the king would not be greatly mourned.”

Sansa bit her lip. Her mind was whirling like autumn snow. “I’m a woman,” she said glumly. “I may be a Stark, but I am still a woman. They’d be less likely to question my assuming his power if they felt my grief. I know many have already declared for me – but they’ll try to find me a new husband; a new king. They will all want that position. The less they like my cousin, the more quickly that will begin.” Then, pulling her lip between her teeth once more, she looked up at Baelish between her lashes. “And I’d hate that, Petyr. Like you said, there is only us.”

Lying about Jon made her feel sick, but watching Baelish’s pupils dilate; watching his tongue dart out to wet his lips; the faint smell of mint on his breath – that made her feeling utterly reviled. A bony, cold finger traced the curve of her jaw. The swell of her lip. She willed her jaw not to clench. “I only wish you had come to me first, sweetling,” Petyr murmured. “We could have made a better plan.” He sighed and leaned back, eyes never leaving her. “It’s a foolish plan. If you had asked for my advice, we could have-”

He was cut off by the harsh blare of war horns sounding throughout camp. Both Sansa and Petyr froze. One blow. Two. Silence. 

“Victory,” Sansa whispered. “Two for victory.” She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Winterfell,” she breathed out, eyes wide. Her whole body felt numb suddenly. 

Petyr stood and pulled Sansa to her feet. His mouth curved in a sickening smile. “It’s yours, darling. It’s _ours_.” When he kissed her – a hard press of his thin lips to her own – it startled her out of her sudden shock. A cold chill spread over her and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly; did her best not to let her discomfort show. Oh, there had been many kisses. Far too many. More than she could count. More than she could ever want to remember. But this was the worst. 

Because now Sansa knew how it felt to be kissed. To be truly kissed by someone who cared. For so long she assumed that the songs she’d loved as a girl had lied about kissing just as they had lied about so many others. Kissing was not pleasant or sweet or gentle or consuming. The Hound. Petyr. Harry. None of them had been like that. 

But Jon’s kiss – oh, that had been a revelation. 

She pulled away; her fingers drifted up to her corrupted lips as if to feel the last vestiges of Jon’s tenderness slip away. 

“We should go,” Baelish was saying, already moving to secure his warmer cloak. “I’ll send for our horses. We need to be in Winterfell early. We need you to be seen as a leader. As a victor.”

Sansa nodded, still feeling a little numb, and let Petyr grab her arm and drag her from the tent. Before she knew it, she was on her mare picking through the remains of the battlefield. Her stomach turned unpleasantly at what remained of men and spearwives and horses who had fallen; at the stink of death and smoke and blood that already plagued the fields; at the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. Holding a piece of cloth to her nose to block out the smells as best she could, Sansa forced herself to look at each and every body – searching for those she knew, silently thanking Jon’s men and spearwives, glaring daggers at Bolton men. 

Small fires were burning in Wintertown. As they passed by the once familiar buildings, Sansa saw faces looking through windows, their eyes widening when they landed on her. It made something in her hurt. She knew what they saw. Petyr spared no opportunity to tell her how like her mother she’d grown to look. It seemed the people of Wintertown felt the same – their wide eyes taking in the spitting image of the late Lady Stark, garbed in Stark white and grey. Sansa forced a smile on her face; forced the cloth from her nose; nodded at the people she saw staring. 

“They know their queen is home,” Baelish said with a smile. “And soon all of the Seven Kingdoms will know it too.”

The tears didn’t begin to fall until she passed beneath the gates for the first time since that summer days year and years before. 

*****

There was a circle of men in the courtyard. They stood near silent in the mud and snow, attention fixed on a battle that was far from a friendly sparing match. Distantly, Sansa remembered that this was the yard she use to watch her brothers train in – where she and Jeyne would skip by on their way to embroidery or harp lessons or Mother’s sept, squealing in disgust at Jon and Robb and Theon pressing each other with wooden swords; free of their tunics and shirts in the summer sun. Yes, there was the little alcove Arya would hide in to watch. The benches where Bran would sit and cheer whichever boy he’d chosen as the day’s champion. It was the only time her little brother would sit still. 

An angry grunt – a feral, inhuman sound – drew Sansa from her memories. She brushed tears from her eyes. The sound of steel on steel; steel on wood; the gasps of the soldiers in the yard. Sansa dismounted without waiting for Baelish to help her and began to push her way through the gathered crowd. A few men tried to stop her, but she could hardly hear their words or feel their steel-clad hands. Finally, Sansa pushed through the last row of soldiers and had a clear view of the open space before her. Jon was savagely hacking at a man in dark armor with a horrific red helm that looked like a corpse screaming. _Bolton._. It had to be. The horrid pink cloak streaming from the back of Jon’s foe was slashed with dark red satin that looked like blood. Sansa turned to the man beside her, grabbing his steel-clad arm. “What’s happening?”

“Bolton demanded a trial by combat, my lady,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the battle at hand. “His Grace obliged.” 

Sansa turned back to watch the fight, eyes widening as Jon’s helm was knocked from his head. It felt as if every one of her nerves was focused on the two men locked in combat; her eyes never waived from the fight aside from a quick glance to Ghost who was pacing around the circle with his lips drawn in a silent snarl. A part of her wanted to urge the wolf to join the fight, but somehow she knew Jon had made him stay out of it. Trial by combat was one-on-one, after all. It would hardly be honorable for him to use his direwolf to win the day. 

She clutched at her skirts nervously and worried a lip between her teeth. Moments later, Jon knocked Bolton’s helm from his head and Sansa felt her insides churn in fear and revulsion. Her reminded her of Joffrey – not nearly as beautiful, but like Joffery he had wormy lips. His eyes were so light they looked like dirty ice. The ice Robb warned her about as a girl; the ice that you fell through and drowned beneath. Rotten, corrupt ice. Her chest tightened as she thought of Jeyne. As she thought of what this man – this monster – had done to her home and her friends and her family. The men continued to hack at each other, and Sansa felt as if her heart would break through her ribs it was pounding so hard. When Ramsay ducked and swung his shield up, effectively knocking Longclaw from Jon’s hand, it seemed like the ground was falling out from under her. She watched her favor – now knotted, no longer in the delicate bow she’d tied it in – rattle against Jon’s arm in the winter wind. It was pink now – stained with blood and mud and gore. But it was there. Somehow the sight of it gave her hope. Gave her strength. 

With a roar, Jon lunged forward and used his vambrace to knock against Ramsay’s arm as his shield – adorned with a snarling direwolf – swung against Bolton’s face. A moment later, Ramsay’s sword lay in the mud mere feet from Longclaw. Sansa heard a man behind her gasp as the battle turned to a war of fists. Each man lunged for each other, trying to knock the other off balance, and Sansa felt as if there was no air left in the world to fill her lungs. She couldn’t help but grasp the arm of the same soldier she’d spoken to moments before when Jon knocked Ramsay to the ground – mud and melting snow splattering around the men. Her eyes widened as Jon began to curl one hand around Bolton’s neck as the other crashed into his jaw; his cheek; his temple repeatedly. For a brief, glorious moment, it seemed as if the battle was won. Then, in a flash, Bolton managed to grab Jon’s shield that had fallen in the mud and used the heavy wood to knock the king away. 

Bile rose in Sansa’s throat as she watched Ramsay drag a dazed Jon to his feet. A well-aimed fist dove for Jon’s jaw, but at the last moment the king managed to block it. For a time, Sansa couldn't breathe, but then the men began to fight each other fist to fist in earnest. She watched in horror as Ramsay wrapped his arms around Jon’s throat; his rotted eyes narrowing as a foul smile crawled across his face. Her nails dragged dully against the soldier’s armor. Distantly, she heard the man beside her ask her something, but Sansa was beyond that. Her entire world had narrowed to the way Jon’s eyes widened; to the way his grasped at the hands squeezing at his throat. 

Then, in an instant, it was over. 

Before Sansa could register the action, Jon removed his hands from Bolton’s; flipping his arms down and under his oppont’s. Ramsay’s arms fell asway as he stumbled back in surprise; crumpled when Jon clutched at his greasy, sweat soaked hair and dragged his head down while raising his knee. A sickening crunch echoed as the movement no doubt broke Bolton’s nose. Sansa couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were locked on the feral look in Jon’s gaze; the veritable snarl tugging at lips that had kissed her so gently only hours earlier. Jon's hand – the hand she’d secured a gauntlet to – suddenly dragged Bolton’s head back by the hair and in a soul shattering instant, his teeth were at the bigger man’s throat. Sansa took a step back, eyes wide in horror, as blood stained the muddy snow. With a final, ferocious shove, Bolton’s body collapsed – lifeless – into the muck, blood streaming from the wound in his neck. Steaming in the ice cold air.

The man beside Sansa muttered a curse. Shocked silence filled the courtyard. 

The courtyard that had once echoed with the giggles of children, now muted in the horror and awe of death. 

Sansa dragged her eyes from blood melting into Winterfell’s snow up to the man who stood over the body. His chest was heaving with exertion. His eyes were as dangerously wild as a wolf’s. Snatching Longclaw from the muddy ground, Jon spit at the prone corpse before stumbling back a few steps. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she should be sacred. She should be horrified by what she’d just seen. 

But it wasn’t fear or disgust that wove through her blood like wine. Her feet were moving before she knew it.

He was shaking when she reached him. Shaking violently as if a dark chill had consumed him. Ignoring the blood and mud and sweat, Sansa reached out and grasped his face; turned his head towards her and away from the bloody remnants of the monster who’d infested their home. Jon’s eyes were hazy; glazed over and foggy as if he was looking without seeing. Longclaw dropped from his hand as his fingers grasped her wrists; as he stepped into her space and released a shaky, “Sansa,” so soft she barely heard it. 

“We’re home,” she whispered back. “You did it, Jon. We’re home.”

His jaw tightened under her fingers as his eyes came somewhat back into focus; his intense, Stark grey irises watching her face carefully as if waiting for the horror to set in. Instead, Sansa slipped a hand to the back of his neck and tugged until Jon’s forehead rested against her own; his harsh, hard breath tickling her lips. The smell of blood was overwhelming, yet still Sansa felt no fear. No disgust. 

Only satisfaction. 

Satisfaction and a hunger she was still too stubborn to examine because yes, this was not the Jon she had known. Yes, this was not her brother. Yes, they would soon become husband and wife. But something about it still felt wrong; still felt taboo; still felt like something she’d never want her mother to know about. And in a dark, twisted way she didn’t think too much about – that made her all the hungrier. 

Jon stepped even closer then, dropping his head from her forehead to her shoulder as he slumped against her body – no doubt forever staining the crisp white of her gown and cloak with the refuse of battle. Her fingers found their way to his hair, holding him close, as her eyes found Petyr’s over Jon's shoulder. A shiver rolled down her spine and her fingers tightened in his curls. Pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple, eyes never breaking from Baelish’s stare, Sansa imagined the smell of another man’s blood. 

Jon had protected her – had given her back her home. Now it was her turn to protect him. She was stronger in the walls of Winterfell, after all. Somehow, she almost pitied the man who’d dragged her from one gilded cage to another. 

He was in the wolf’s den now, and the pack had returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it too dark??????????????????? I wanted Jon and Sansa to kinda hit peak wolfishness here. I hope it wasn’t too far. At least for Jon. I debated for so long whether I should stick with how the show handled the confrontation, but I just felt like my Jon is supposed to be a lot more messed up than show Jon ever was, and book Jon was ready to absolutely throw hands after reading the pink letter, so I can only imagine how he would feel knowing the things the reader knows about Ramsay. Idk. I hope it wasn’t too much! 
> 
> Also yes, Sansa’s look at Baelish is 500% inspired by show Sansa’s iconic glare at Dany over Jon’s shoulder in season 8. 
> 
> Quick question as I continue to map out the sequel – I’ll ask again in the last chapter, but currently are y’all liking Sansa’s POV or would you like to see Jon’s in the sequel? Mix of both? Just Jon? Just Sansa? Both and some other people’s mixed in? I’m very torn, and it affects how I’m mapping the plot so I thought I’d ask the lovely people I’m writing these fics for to see what you all want. If it helps, the sequel is going to deal much more with Jon being a Targ and what that means, as well as delving into issues regarding the Long Night and the Iron Throne now that the Starks have Winterfell again. And of course, the politics of this “political” marriage.
> 
> Things are going to pick up quickly now!! Only a couple chapters left and we have lots of ground to cover :) I know this chapter was short but the next few will be long ones.


	21. xxi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS I AM BACK 
> 
> First, I am so sorry for the HUGE delay. I’ve had a rough spring and just couldn’t motivate myself to write, but I’m doing better now, and school is slowing down so it’s time for me to take up the metaphorical pen again. Thanks for checking in on me and for your kind comments when I was away. I saw them and I appreciate them and all of you. I hope this chapter lives up to the anticipation of a months-long delay.

Sansa slept in the kitchens that night, brow smudged with another’s blood and hands dirty from an evening spent tending the wounds that won her Winterfell. When the moon was high in the sky, Val tried to persuade her to retire to a chamber – to bathe even – but Sansa refused. It had become quickly apparent that the cost of the Battle of the Bastards, as the men were already calling it, had been great. It was fought for her and her family, so the least she could do was mend what cuts and breaks she could. Besides, the thought of sleeping in a bed that had been occupied by a Bolton loyalist the night before made her stomach turn. 

Just before dawn broke, Sansa drifted out of a heavy, dreamless sleep. The kitchen was cold and quiet. The still of the morning was punctured only by the moans of wounded men spread on cots and blankets and bare stone around the large room. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and groaned. Her neck would be sore all day. With a sigh, Sansa stood and grabbed a bucket before trudging to the door. She filled it with snow in the kitchen yard where Cook use to have a small summer herb garden when she was a girl. The rest of the morning was spent spooning the melted snow into tired, thirsty mouths and wrapping and cleaning wound after wound. It was exhausting work, but the hours passed quickly. 

Sansa didn’t see Jon at all that day, and truth be told she was too busy and bone-tired to think much on him. That night, when a round-faced washer woman informed her that she’d prepared a bath for the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa was too exhausted to refuse. With a sigh, she sunk into the warm water and let her face dip beneath the surface. The crackle of the fire and the noises of the washer-woman preparing a bed for Sansa faded into muddled echoes. It reminded Sansa of the stories her mother told her of Riverrun. Of how she’d play in the Trident as a girl, pretending to be a water sprite and a fish and a lost princess. Suddenly a vision of Catelyn bloated and pale and rotting in a gentle green river roared into Sansa’s mind and she burst from the water with a gasp. The washer-woman was by her side in an instant. 

“My Lady? Are you alright?”

Sansa’s wide eyes took in the round, almost familiar face. Her breathing slowed. “I know you.”

The woman’s look of shock slowly turned to a soft fondness. “Aye, my Lady. I was a maid of your mother before the wars. I was younger then. And thinner. I’ve brought three babes into the world since.” 

A distant memory fought its way to the fore of Sansa’s mind, but it was clouded by the fear and anger knotting her stomach. “You served the Boltons? The Greyjoys?” 

The woman lowered her eyes. “Not by choice, my Lady. But it was serve them or die, and I have little ones to feed. My husband died at the Twins with his Grace and your Lady Mother.” 

“Oh,” Sansa breathed, a little ashamed at her quickness to judge. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. What is your name?”

“Berta, my Lady.”

Sansa nodded. “Berta. Thank you. For the bath, and the bed.”

Berta smiled. “It is my honor, my Lady. For nearly seven years I’ve prayed for the day I’d serve a Stark again. I never forgot your family. None of us did. The North remembered, my Lady. And it remembers still.” 

*****

That night Sansa dreamt she was drowning. 

First, it was in a sea of bodies. The riot back in King’s Landing erupted once more in a blast of violent heat and blood and the churning of starving, furious bodies. Then the heat morphed to the cool, crisp waters of her mother’s river. Waves of green and red and rotten limbs turned an unnatural white by the ancient flow. The Trident chilled then, piling pound upon pound over her frozen body as ice rose up tall as the mountains. Her screams were lost in the cold as her vision faded to black, and suddenly all she could hear was Petyr’s birdlike laugh. High and nasally, melding with the melody of Joffrey’s snicker and the soft bells of Cersei Lannister’s cackle. Somewhere in the distance, The Hound asked her to sing. Demanded her to sing. A hand reached for in the darkness – burned and scarred and rotting. It pulled her into brilliant, blinding light and when Sansa looked to her savior’s face she woke with a start, drenched in sweat and breathing so hard her lungs hurt. 

Still gasping for air, she pulled on a thick wool robe and threw open a window. The frigid air stung her skin and made her throat burn, but she welcomed the feeling. Her breath came slower now, and Sansa rested her forehead against the windowsill. She was trying desperately to remove the final image of her nightmare from her mind, but it was stuck there like bloody sap on a weirwood. 

Jon’s rotted, decayed face. Two sharp, unseeing blue eyes where smoke-dark Stark eyes should sit. The stink of death and betrayal that was so painfully familiar. After all, the tar hadn’t hidden the rot of her father’s head from her upon the battlements of the Red Keep. And when she’d seen the same rot patterns on Jon’s face in her sleep, she recognized them immediately. Jon had always looked like father, after all. 

Her stomach rolled and Sansa pushed herself away from the window, stumbling into a pair of boots before blindly lurching out of the chamber. There was a guard outside her door, and Sansa was fairly sure he asked her something, but her ears were still filled with the roar of the mob and the river and the ice; with the laughs of those who had tried to tear her apart and who were still trying to destroy her from the inside out. She walked through Winterfell’s dark halls without truly seeing. The need to find _something_ overwhelmed her, but Sansa couldn’t figure out what it was she needed. She passed the boys’ old room, then her and Arya’s. She passed her parents’ chambers and the room she had embroidery lessons in and the covered bridge where she’d always find Arya watching the boys in the yard. 

The castle felt like a hollowed shell. It felt as if she were still inside a dream – a nightmare. Every room, every tower, every stone was where she remembered, but none of it was right. _It wasn’t Winterfell._ Her breath came too fast again. She felt like she was drowning once. more, suffocating in the blackness of these unfamiliar yet familiar halls. As soon as she spotted a door into the courtyard, Sansa burst through it and took the steps two at a time. She nearly slipped on the icy, stone steps half a dozen times, but once her boots sank into the snow at the bottom, air began to flow into her lungs once more. She felt snowflake land on her cheeks and her lips. They were sweet and fresh, and seemed to drag her out of the waking nightmare. A chill set into her skin then. It sank deep into her bones as she gazed around the dark courtyard. 

“Stupid girl,” she muttered to herself. The wool robe she’d thrown over her nightdress did little to keep her warm. Even so, Sansa couldn’t bear the thought of returning inside. After months – years – of yearning for the walls of Winterfell, all she wanted now was to be back in her tent in some muddy field. She wasn’t the girl who had lived in this castle once. And this castle wasn’t the home it had once been. So, what was the point? What was the point of the battle that had wounded and killed so many? What of her brother’s war, what of Jon’s war? They were all meaningless. Time was far crueler than any of her keepers had ever been, and she was just a stupid little girl to think that returning to Winterfell meant anything. 

Sansa was yanked from her mind by the sharp crunch of glass under her boot. Though the sound was muffled by the snow, it rang clearly through the silent courtyard. With a frown, she bent and gently wiped the top layers of snow from the ground. 

“Seven hells,” she hissed as a shard of glass cut her pointer finger. She sucked on the injured digit as she stood and used her boot to finish uncovering the glass. When a small purple piece caught the moonlight, her hand fell back to her side in shock. “Gods,” Sansa whispered. She grabbed the edge of her robe and used to frantically brush away snow. “How did I not realize?” 

Spread beneath her, buried under rubble and snow, were the remains of her mother’s glass gardens. They’d been a marvel when she was a girl. Warm and humid; always smelling of tilled earth and green things and blooms. While most of the glass was clear and clean, the very tops of the panes had been beautifully stained with images of flowers and plants and birds. It had been a positively magical place once, and a place that she shared with her mother. How many days had been spent here with Catelyn, picking flowers and learning their names and staining her hands green and brown? Her wet, cold hands uncovered clear glass, blue glass, green glass, purple glass. Glass the sun had once shone through to warm the plants served to her and her family. The plants that healed and fed and scented the world she’d known. How many times had Sansa sat in these gardens and pretended she was a lady in the south, marveling in their beauty and warmth? 

“Foolish girl,” she sniffled, setting more colorful glass aside. 

The damp and cold was forgotten now. Sansa wiped at the snow like a woman possessed, desperate to bring some presence of the life she’d once had back into the light. Her bleeding finger began to paint the snow red, but still Sansa worked until she saw something that made her numb fingers freeze mid-movement. Under a mix of old leaves and glass and sticks was a tiny, tiny little green shoot. It seemed impossible, here in the frigid moonlight under snow and glass and refuse, that there would be life. But there it was despite the impossibility of it all. 

Sansa rocked back onto her bottom and stared at the tiny speck of green. Then, strangely, she began to laugh. 

“Sansa?” 

The cold rumble of Jon’s voice made her desperate laughter die in her throat. She twisted and saw him emerging from the shadows. He looked like a shadow himself, turned against the moonlight and dark as ever. As he came closer, she realized the shadow on his face was a huge, blue bruise over his chin and eye.

“What are you doing?” he murmured, leaning down to where she sat soaking wet and shaking in the snow. 

Sansa’s eyes widened and for the first time that night she felt some clarity. Looking around at the mess she’d made, she felt her cheeks flush. “I… I don’t….” She stumbled over her words. What _was_ she doing? Her eye caught on the tiny shoot again. “I found M-Mother’s garden. The g-glass gardens. There’s a plant h-here. There’s life. Even u-under all of this t-there’s life.” 

Jon grabbed her hands suddenly and with a jolt of surprise Sansa finally registered how numb they were. 

“You’re bleeding,” he said gruffly. “Dammit, Sansa, it’s too cold. You don’t even have a bloody cloak!” He stood and sharply tugged her up with him. When the frigid wind hit her snow-soaked robe and nightdress, she began to shake violently. “Gods,” Jon cursed. He tugged his own shaggy, black cloak from his shoulders and dumped it unceremoniously onto hers before dragging her against him. He began to rub her arms as Ghost too emerged from the shadows and wrapped around her. “What were you thinking?” Jon snarled against her hair. 

“I ha-had to ge-get out,” Sansa mumbled, suddenly feeling very foolish. What had come over her? What had possessed her? She buried her face farther into Jon’s chest until she could hear his heart beating smooth and steady. Slowly, feeling returned to her limbs and with it came the sharp, stabbing pain of her cut finger. “I – I think I ne-need stitches.” 

Jon pulled back only enough to grab the hand she was cradling to her chest. He cursed again when he saw her finger. “Gods, Sansa!” In one fluid movement, Jon bent and scoped her up from the ground and into his arms. Acting on pure instinct, her arms moved to his neck even as she winced at the pressure it put on her injured finger. “I’ll take you to the maester.” 

“No,” Sansa whispered, teeth chattering in the cold. “No, the men need his help more. I can stitch it.” 

“Your own finger? Sansa, you’re right-handed. You can’t stitch your finger with your non-dominant-”

“T-then you d-do it.” 

Jon kicked a door from the courtyard open and scoffed. “I’m shit at stitches.” 

“I-I’ll help.”

“Sansa-”

“I d-don’t want a-anyone to know!”

Jon’s frown deepened, but he continued on through Winterfell’s dark and chilly halls. Sansa let her head drop against his shoulder and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m e-embarrassed. By the g-gods, I d-don’t know w-what came o-over me.” 

His grip on her tightened. After a long moment he mumbled, “Okay.” 

He took her to a little chamber in the section of the keep reserved for the Starks. It was small and bare with a little bed and a smaller fireplace – certainly nothing to compare to her parents’ chambers or the one she had shared with Arya. Jon sat her down gently on the bed and threw the worn wool blanket over her before quickly rekindling the low fire. She watched him work while Ghost curled around her again, his hulking form plainly too large for the bed.

“I’ve never seen this room before,” Sansa said conversationally. It was a desperate attempt to move on from the fact he’d found her half-mad and frozen in the courtyard. 

Jon glanced back at her. “It was mine.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She’d assumed it was the chambers of one of the family maids. “But you slept with the boys?” 

With his back still turned to her, Jon shook his head. “Your mother didn’t want to be to assume I belonged with them.” 

“Oh,” she replied quietly, suddenly unable to look at him. After a moment, Jon’s boots came into view. 

His voice was gentle now. “Let me see your finger.” 

Obediently, Sansa lifted her hand to his attention. After inspecting it a moment, Jon grabbed a washbasin from across the room and gingerly began to clean the wound. Sansa winced at the sting. Where he produced the needle and thread, she wasn’t sure. She’d been too focused on the pattern of the stone floor and her own shame at both her present state and her ignorance about his childhood. How could she not have known where he slept? 

The sharp stab of the needle made her gasp as it wrenched her from her thoughts. 

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. Sansa looked up at him finally and took in his crinkled brow bunched in concentration. The bruises on his face looked painful and his lip was split. Had he been injured in the battle? It had all happened so fast after – the quartering of men; the healing; the pyres. It was the first she’d seen him since he ripped Ramsay’s throat.

“It’s nothing,” she whispered back. “Are you hurt?”

Jon paused in his stitching and looked up at her. “Hurt?”

“From the battle. I haven’t seen you.” 

His face softened. “Oh. Nothing serious.”

“Your face-”

“Will heal.” He turned back down to her finger and continued his stitching. 

Sansa broke the silence again after a moment. “You lied.”

A deep, rumbling hum was her only response. 

“You said you can’t stitch. Look, you have a steady, even hand.” 

He smirked slightly. “Well, I was a steward.” Pulling the last stitch through, Jon tied off the thread and clipped it with the swipe of a knife in his belt. When the work was done his eyes met hers again. “You warm enough? You should change. Those clothes are wet.” 

Suddenly, Sansa felt like crying. “I – I don’t…” She sighed and covered her face. “It sounds so silly, I know, but I don’t know where my clothes are to even change. All I have done the last days is tend to the wounded. I don’t know where my clothes were taken or where I should be staying, and it feels so selfish to be concerned about chambers and clothes and-”

Jon pulled her against him suddenly, running a warm hand through her hair. “It’s okay, Sansa. Calm down.” 

Her breath was coming too fast again and her throat felt too tight – like someone was squeezing it with invisible hands. 

“You’re okay,” Jon whispered against her ear. “You’re safe.”

“I feel like a ghost in my own castle,” she murmured when her breath was finally under control. “This isn’t Winterfell.” 

Jon’s grip on her tightened. “In time it will be.”

She was silent a long moment. “I miss them, Jon.” Mother, Father, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon. Jeyne and Beth. Jory. Septa Mordane. The little maids that bathed her and dressed her. The stable boys. The cooks. “This whole castle feels like a tomb.” 

Jon held her quietly for so long that Sansa wasn’t sure he’d even heard her. When all the warmth had returned to her hands, he kissed her forehead. “But there is life. You said so yourself – down in the courtyard.” 

She remembered that tiny little green shoot and smiled. 

“All the castle needs is someone kind to tend to it, and it will live again,” Jon continued. “Fa- Lord Stark always said there had to be a Stark in Winterfell. Well, now she’s back.” 

Sansa nodded against him. “Now _we’re_ back.” 

*****

Jon escorted her back to her chambers a little while later. He insisted on tending to her fire as she quickly stripped behind the safety of his turned back and slipped into the warm furs and blankets of the bed Berta had prepared. 

“Okay,” she murmured. “You can turn now.” 

Even when he did, his eyes were averted to the ground. It made her smile again as fondness welled in her. There were men who would take advantage of her state. Who would take advantage of a cold, dark, empty castle and the naked, cold, injured, and half-mad lady within it. But Jon wasn't one of those men. 

“Goodnight, Sansa.” 

“Goodnight, Jon.” 

He was half-way out the door when Sansa called, “Wait! Ghost is still in here!” The enormous wolf was curled contentedly by the fire.

Jon glanced at her ever so briefly before gruffly calling Ghost’s name. The wolf gave him a long glance before padding silently over to the bed and settling beside Sansa. 

“He’ll keep you warm. Keep the nightmares away.” 

Sansa tore her eyes from Ghost and looked up to Jon, but when they fell on the door he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s important to me that it's clear the kids are not okay, and that includes Sansa. So, if she seems a little cuckoo in this chapter, good.
> 
> I know this was on the shorter side, and honestly, this chapter was supposed to have a lot more plot, but this is where I ended up. It was more important for me to give Sansa time to adjust somewhat, I guess. I don't know. Sometimes I get carried away with the emotions of the characters and it leads me down paths I didn't expect. 
> 
> Right now I'm on track to finish this in 25 chapters, but I made add one or two. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Have a lovely day!


End file.
